


It's in the Blood

by alakewood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Series, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alakewood/pseuds/alakewood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While holed up in a cabin in the Colorado mountains with his brother, Sam hears something howling.  Dean tells him it's probably just a stray and sends him out into the cold February night with his gun - but it's not a stray.  Nobody ever told them that werewolves were real. Sam doesn't survive the attack, exactly, and the transformation that follows is subtle.  They run away, afraid of what John will think if he finds out what happened, and somehow stumble across a community of other 'wolves in Tennessee.  Things get better until they get worse:  what happens when Dean is bitten and reacts badly to the virus that caused Sam and all the other 'wolves to change?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Supernatural/J2 Big Bang 2013.
> 
> Major character death is ONLY TEMPORARY.

Dean swipes away the yellowish gleam of gun oil from the pearl grip of his Colt with a clean edge of cloth and tucks the gun away in the waistband of his jeans. He tosses the dirty rag onto the pile of others and packs up their newly cleaned arsenal.

Sam is curled up in one corner of the couch in front of the fire, black and blue zig-zag patterned afghan across his lap and one of Daniel Elkins' handwritten journals about vampires open on his knees.

Before Elkins' call to their father three days ago, none of the Winchesters knew vampires existed outside of lore. But now, Sam and Dean have been left to learn from Elkins' multiple journals while their father gets firsthand experience fighting a nasty and violent coven in northern Washington.

Personally, Dean would rather be where the action is instead of cooped up in a small cabin in the mountains with the constant threat of bad weather and Sam's even worse mood swings. But he's not one to question orders. Instead, he drags the weapons chest across the floor, out of the way to its place beneath the east-facing window in the main living area.

Dean pulls back the curtain and peers out the warped lead glass into the darkening woods, thick with bare trees. Fat white flakes of snow are slowly drifting and swirling down from a sheet of gray cloud cover and Dean lets the musty, sun-bleached fabric fall back into place before turning around to face Sam. He gives the end of the couch a shove with his knee. “Help me clear the floor, Sam. We need to train.”

“Pass,” Sam says offhandedly, carefully flipping a yellowed page.

“It wasn't a suggestion. Get moving.” Dean braces both hands on the arm of the couch opposite the corner Sam's tucked up against and pushes hard. The couch's legs groan low, wood scraping against wood as they drag across the floor.

Sam slams the journal shut with a muffled snap as he jumps to his feet, tossing the book and his blanket onto cushions. “Fine,” Sam grits out, squaring his hips and raising his hands in the fighting stance that comes second nature when he's this angry and annoyed with his brother.

Dean moves the couch back on his own and starts for the coffee table with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head at Sam who is somehow snottier and more of a pain in the ass than usual. Sam's shoulder colliding with his ribs low in his back catches him off guard and they both go sprawling to the floor, Dean knocking the whole left side of his face on the edge of the table on the way down.

“There,” Sam says, climbing to his feet and drawing up to his full height. “You happy?”

Dean works his way up to his knees, bracing himself on the coffee table as his head rings with the echoes of sharp pain and bright flashes of light. He drags the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip and it comes away with a crimson smear. “Yeah, Sam,” he grits out, finding his feet and turning towards his brother. “I'm fucking ecstatic.” He watches Sam's eyes widen, can see the automatic apology there before Sam even opens his mouth.

“Dean-” he starts.

“Save it,” Dean interrupts, stalking away towards the tiny kitchen on the far side of the cabin.

Sam figures that's the end of it and can't help the guilty slump of his shoulders as he drags the couch back into place. But Dean's voice carries loudly from the other side of the room, the refrigerator door acting as a barrier to shield him from Sam's view.

“Just think, Sam – you've got, what? Only three or four months left then you can do whatever the fuck you want. Don't gotta listen to Dad, don't gotta listen to me. No more training, no more hunting. Bet you can't fucking wait to get away.” Dean closes the refrigerator door and meets Sam's shocked gaze head-on.

Sam could try to deny it, but he'd be lying. His silence and averted eyes are answer enough anyway, and the little hurt, disbelieving scoff that falls from Dean's bloodied mouth makes Sam's chest ache.

“That's what I thought.” He doesn't say any more – _can't_ – but goes about making dinner even though it's barely five and he's not even hungry.

Sam tries to get back into the journal he'd abandoned, but his guilty, racing mind can't focus on the faded ink. When Dean plunks down two plates on the scarred and stained surface, he quietly makes his way to the kitchen table. Dean made chicken and rice with mixed vegetables that Dean hates but knows Sam likes. The meal looks like an apology Sam doesn't deserve because _Dean_ didn't do anything wrong. “Dean, I'm-”

“Just forget it and eat, Sam.” Dean keeps his stare focused on his plate, spears a carrot and a green bean and tries to ignore the weight of Sam's gaze on him.

They eat in silence, nothing but the sound of the wind whistling through the trees outside, and Sam wordlessly collects their empty plates and glasses and does the dishes at the sink. Behind him he hears Dean open the fridge and the clink of beer bottles, then Dean's retreating footsteps.

Dean doesn't go far, just to the ratty gray-green armchair beside the fire. He kicks his boots up onto the coffee table and cracks open the oldest of the journals Elkins has – one that belongs to Elias Elkins and is dated 1837 – and pries the cap off his first beer with his ring. Sam joins him some twenty minutes later with a glass of water and downcast eyes.

 

Sam startles awake with a jerk, uncertain as to what roused him. The fire's burning low behind the iron screen and Dean's asleep, sprawled out in the recliner, feet crossed at the ankle on the table.

A howl pierces the silence, high-pitched and not too distant.

“Dean?” Sam stands from the couch, blanket and journal sliding to a heap on the floor, and he knocks Dean's feet off the table.

“The fuck, Sam?” Dean grumbles, cracking open his blackening eye and shifting closer to the dying fire.

“Did you hear that?”

Dean grunts what Sam understands to be a negative response.

“Did Daniel say anything about wolves or coyotes up here?” He strains to listen over the white noise but doesn't hear anything more.

“It's just the wind,” Dean slurs sleepily.

“Dean.”

“Go t' bed, Sammy.”

Sam stands stock still as he tries to distinguish the faint, outside sounds from the hissing crackle of the burned-out logs in the fireplace that glow orange and red in the ashes and embers.

Dean's already dozing when the next bay comes, much closer than before.

“ _Dean._ ”

“For Christ's sake,” Dean huffs, rolling half on his side to pull his gun out from the back of his jeans. “If it bothers you that much, go check it out. 's prob'ly just a stray.”

Sam accepts the skin-warmed gun, caresses the safety with his thumb as he eyes the front door. It could be nothing. It probably _is_ nothing. But there's a cold weight slipping it's way down his spine that has nothing to do with the chill in the air as the fire fails to throw off ample heat. The feeling only intensifies as he moves towards the door. He tugs on his jacket and pushes the door open, a brief gust of wind kicking up freshly fallen snow in a swirl of crystalline flakes that sparkle in the light of the full moon.

The door thuds shut behind Sam as he steps outside, taking a deep breath of the crisp, clean mountain air that doesn't help to calm his nerves. He thumbs off the safety and strokes the trigger with the tip of his finger.

A twig snaps some fifty paces ahead at his two o'clock and he levels the barrel that way, creeping quietly into the trees. Snow crunching underfoot and the harsh sound of his own shallow breathing is all Sam can hear.

About sixty feet in, a low growl sounds from behind a dense stand of skeletal trees, trunks packed so close together they look like they're huddled for warmth.

The fine hairs at the back of Sam's neck rise – there's something about the tone that's more man than beast. He shifts his weight to his right foot and braces for the kickback as he fires a shot.

Everything happens pretty fast after that.

A snarling, growling dark mass launches out of the trees and tackles Sam to the ground. It's heavy on his chest, knocking the breath right out of his lungs as its claws tear through his jacket, slashing down his arm and across his ribs.

Another shot rings out and Sam's not sure if it meets its target because there's no reaction from the creature aside from its renewed fervor, snapping sharp, glinting teeth at Sam's throat. He gets his arm up to shield his face and neck and feels the bite sink bone-deep into the underside of his arm. It snarls and bites again, latching onto his shoulder, and Sam's whole arm tenses as he squeezes off another round. This time, the creature whimpers and claws at Sam's chest one more time, desperate, and Sam fires off two more shots.

Sam feels the weight move off of him and struggles to take in a breath. All he achieves is a wheezing gurgle that tastes like a handful of pennies. Beneath him, the ground is cold and damp, melting snow seeping into his clothes as he lies motionless under sentry-like trees, warmth welling inside his chest and trickling over his sides, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He tries to call out for Dean but his voice escaped with the thing that attacked him.

 

Anxiety falls on Dean the moment the door whumps shut behind Sam. He tosses a couple more logs onto the fire and stirs the embers with an iron poker until the logs are set ablaze. Then he paces in front of the fireplace until the seconds tick into minutes and he tosses in a couple more logs for good measure before giving in to the unsettling feeling in his gut. His jacket's halfway on when he hears the first shot, muted by the heavy wooden door.

Three more gunshots echo down the mountainside by the time Dean very nearly stumbles over his brother. Sam--

“Oh, God.” Dean's knees buckle at the sight, the bright moonlight illuminating the tint of red in the dark splatters across the gleaming snow. Sam's stained with it and the heavy scent of iron permeates the air. Dean's hands shake as he tries to figure out where all that blood is coming from. The slightest touch of his palm to Sam's chest leaves his hand covered and tacky and – Dean wrenches violently to the side as he loses his dinner.

There's way too much blood. There's no way Sam can be--

Dean can't catch his breath, reaches tremulous hands out to Sam's too pale face. Sam's eyes squeeze shut tightly before blinking open, gaze falling on Dean's shape.

“Sam? Oh, God, Sammy. I'm- Fuck. You're- you're gonna be okay.” He hastily gathers Sam's limp, heavy body into his arms and somehow makes it back to the cabin and inside where he gently lays his brother down on the floor in front of the fire.

He's got the first aid kit from Elkins' bathroom in his hands before he puts any conscious thought into fetching it, then he's tearing Sam's shredded jacket and hoodie and t-shirt from his body in long, blood-soaked strips.

“Don't you fucking do this, Sam,” he shudders out, slick, stained hands wrapping lengths of gauze around Sam's tattered chest and side that too quickly darkens with the blood that seeps through the loose weave. The gash down Sam's arm is so deep it cleaves clean through muscle to the pale bone beneath.

He strips Sam down to naked skin and tosses more logs into the fire before gathering up all the blankets in the living room and stripping down himself.

Sam's skin is as cold as the snow Dean found him in, and Dean clings to him with everything he's got.

This isn't how it ends. Not for Sam. Not for his baby brother, almost a man now, who doesn't want anything to do with this life. Who deserves more, better, _everything._ Everything but this. _Anything_ but this.

Dean presses his face into Sam's hair and finds himself humming some lullaby that never failed to calm Sam as a baby. He's rocking him gently in the cocoon of blankets and blood, and Sam's a dead weight against his chest.

Sam can't – he's _not_ \--

But he isn't breathing and Dean's tacky fingers can't find a pulse anywhere he searches. Something ugly and painful and terrifying wells up inside him, strangles his lungs with its vice-like grip until his heart feels like it might explode. He can't hold that vicious, clawed thing back and it tears from his chest in an inhuman wail. He clutches Sam's lifeless body even tighter as he feels the adrenalin that's fueled him since he first laid eyes on Sam bleeding out into the snow in the woods ebb into nothing but hollow weariness. Dean's so tired and he closes his eyes, praying to God and whoever else will listen that he won't ever wake up.

 

The inside of the cabin is dark when Dean wakes what could be seconds or hours later, considering how exhaustion still weighs down his bones, Sam's skin sticky and hot against his.

Something like an agonized whimper falls from Sam's mouth as his whole body starts trembling. Dean's slow to come to full awareness, at first just holding Sam and whispering nonsense at him like he used to when they were kids and Sam had a nightmare. But the nightmare was real this time, and images come back to Dean in a grotesque, Technicolor slideshow.

Dean pulls back to look at the body in his arms, briefly wondering if he's holding a demon or a zombie before remembering that the cabin is warded. Which means that whatever is happening to Sam is because of what attacked him in the woods.

Howling and a full moon. Sam's heart nearly clawed from his chest. It seems too obvious, too clichéd, not to mention entirely impossible, considering their father's never told them any second-hand stories of werewolves. Of course, they'd never heard of real vampires until a couple of days ago.

Sam's tremors slowly turn into something more like seizures as sweat breaks out over his skin, dried blood becoming slick and sticky again with the added dampness, and Sam cries out in obvious pain and distress. Dean continues to hold him, whispers, “I've got you,” and “I'm _never_ gonna leave,” against Sam's fevered skin. Whatever Sam is, Dean's not leaving his side so long as he's still alive and his heart's still beating. Whatever Sam is, he's still Dean's brother.

When he was four, Dean made a promise to take care of his baby brother, to protect him, and it's all he knows how to do. Nothing's ever going to change that.

 

The truth to their situation becomes obvious when Sam, shivering and sweating, turns his face into the gentle touch of Dean's hand on his cheek only to flinch away with a shocked gasp when the ring on Dean's finger burns his skin. Dean's _silver_ ring.

The weak gray light of another winter morning gives shape to the shadows around them. The fire is nothing more than smoldering embers, more ash than burnable wood. Sam's body is kicking off heat like a furnace, but Dean can still feel the cold seeping through the blankets at his back. Sam makes a sound of protest as Dean attempts to extract himself from their bloody tangle of limbs.

As much as Dean never wants to move, never wants to let Sam out of his sight ever again, he has to add more kindling to the fire, and they desperately need to bathe and eat at some point.

Dean takes one of the cleaner blankets with him, wrapping it around his shoulders and holding it closed over his stomach with one hand as he tosses a few more logs into the fireplace and stirs the ashes around with the poker. Nothing catches so he wedges some crumpled, yellowed newspaper between two logs and lights it with a match. His gaze flickers from the smoking logs to the mess of blankets piled around Sam.

Once he feels the warmth the slowly growing fire is throwing off, Dean returns to Sam, shedding the blanket and pulling on his ruined clothes. He kneels beside Sam's head. “Sammy,” he ventures in a gravelly whisper, carding his fingers through Sam's hair, tangled with blood and sweat. “You awake?”

Sam snuffles and arches into Dean's touch, and something in Dean knows, without a doubt, that this is still his brother. Sam is still _Sam._

“Sammy?”

“Mm.” Sam's eyes slowly blink open and his nose twitches, then his eyes widen as he takes in the sight of Dean in front of him, the blankets around them. “Dean?” he rasps, sitting up, voice scraped raw. His breath comes in harsh, shallow gasps as his memory of the previous night returns. “I- Didn't I...?”

Dean knows Sam finds the answer to his unfinished question in the expression on Dean’s face. “I don't know exactly what happened, but...” He shakes his head, gaze dropping to Sam's healing chest as tears fill his eyes. “God, Sam, you weren't- You _weren't._ Then- then I don't know what happened.”

Sam's silent for a long while, listening to the crackle-pop of the fire. “It was a werewolf, wasn't it?”

“Don't know what else it could've been.”

Sam shakes his head and sits up straighter. He takes as deep a breath as his aching lungs will allow and resigns himself to his fate. “You know what you have to do.”

Dean's eyes dart up to Sam's face, wide, shocked. “What?”

“You have to kill me, Dean. You-” It won't be easy, Sam knows, but it has to be done.

“No.” The response is immediate, absolute, unarguable. “ _No._ ”

“What about Dad? Huh? What are you gonna tell him? What are you gonna tell Dad when the next full moon rolls around and I turn into a _monster_?” He has to make Dean understand. “You think he's gonna hesitate to put a bullet-”

“Dad-” Dean interrupts, unable and unwilling to let Sam continue with whatever he thinks their father will do, “Dad doesn't have to know.” Decides, “He's not _gonna_ know.”

“We can't keep this a secret from _Dad,_ Dean.”

Dean shaking his head again as a plan starts forming in his mind. “We've gotta go, Sam. Soon.”

“What are you- Dean. We can't run away.”

“We don't have a choice. I'm not gonna let anything else happen to you. I'm _not._ ” He turns to Sam, tears in his eyes threatening to fall, and promises, “I'm not.”

“But Dad-”

“ _Fuck_ Dad. It's just you and me now, Sammy.”

“You don't have to do this.”

“The hell I don't. This – what happened to you – it's _my_ fault. _I_ did this. And I'm gonna protect you. From Dad, from everything. Don't argue me on this, Sam. Please.”

Dean's eyes are heavily shadowed, damp, bloodshot, and desperate. Sam is uncertain what he'd do if the situation was reversed, just knows he'd do his best to keep his brother safe. Dean's right – all they've got is each other, and that he's only seeing that _now_? That, just yesterday, he was prepared to abandon the one good, constant thing he's ever had in his life for a chance at something new, something different – something normal? He's been so selfish, thoughtlessly ignoring how Dean's always put him first in _everything._ Ever since Sam can remember, Dean's been there for him – making sure he had a full belly, clothes and shoes that fit, a warm blanket to sleep with. It's _always_ been Dean, there to protect him and keep him safe, and Sam's never once thanked him or shown his appreciation.

Dean shifts into a crouch and holds his hand out to Sam. “Come on. The faster we can get out of here, the more distance we can put between us and Dad.”

Sam takes Dean's offered hand and stands with his brother's help. His muscles stretch, his joints pop, and his skin feels like an itchy, second-hand Goodwill sweater, tight with dried blood and sweat and something else that feels foreign. He guesses that's to be expected after dying and transforming into a werewolf. His whole physiology is probably fundamentally different now, right down to his DNA.

“Sam?” Dean prompts.

Sam realizes he's still holding onto Dean's hand, standing naked, save for the crimson-stained gauze his chest and arm are wrapped with, in the living room of a hunter's cabin with his blood all over everything. “Right. Sorry,” he says, dropping Dean's hand walking stiffly towards the bathroom. There's blood here, too. He can't imagine what Dean must've gone through last night – the thought makes Sam feel lightheaded and heavy-hearted. So he closes his eyes against the streaks and splotches and climbs into the shower.

When he hears the water start in the bathroom, Dean finally moves. First, he goes to the bedroom they've been sharing to find them both clean changes of clothes. He slips into the bathroom to leave Sam's on the closed toilet seat before retreating to the kitchen to get started on a quick breakfast. He tries to plan a route in his mind as he scrambles some eggs and fries up half a slab of bacon. They'll have to travel completely by foot until they can either steal a car that nobody's going to notice is missing or buy one for cheap – they can't risk their dad finding them so easily. They won't be able to take more than the clothes on their backs, either. The more the whole scene looks like an attack – and the living room and that spot in the woods outside already look like they've seen gruesome, fight-to-the-death battles – the less likely it is that their father will think that they've merely run away.

Sam shuts the water off when it starts running cool. His skin is clean and his wounds are tender, bright pink scars except for the bite marks on his shoulder and forearm that are an angry red. Now that he's clean, the iron scent of his blood is cloying, sticks uncomfortably in his nose and the back of his throat until he can taste the metallic tang of it.

He dresses quickly, pausing to bury his face in the worn softness of the gray hoodie Dean left for him – it smells of gravel dust from the trunk and musty, damp paper from the books it was packed with. There's another fainter, familiar scent, a vague trace of some earthy musk and leather that's calming. He breathes deep and holds it in his nose, lets the comfort it inspires wash over him.

The stench of his blood is overpowering when he opens the door and Sam very nearly gags. It smells like death and sets all the tiny hairs along the back of his neck on end. The dark, sickly-sweetness of it is briefly eclipsed by heavily-peppered frying eggs and greasy bacon. Sam focuses on that, feels saliva fill his mouth and slick his teeth as he nears the kitchen.

Dean serves up a plate and slides it onto the table before dropping the bread into the toaster and dishing up a second plate for himself. He eats, standing at the counter, while Sam sits at the table and devours the light, meager meal as though he hasn't eaten in days. Sam’s experience last night likely took a lot out of him, so Dean just butters the last two pieces of toast for Sam and slides the three uneaten strips of bacon off his plate onto his brother’s. “I'm gonna shower quick, then we'll go,” Dean says as he drops his plate in the sink. “Just basics, Sam. Don't take anything you can't carry with you and nothing Dad can trace.”

Sam nods, mouth full, and watches Dean walk away. He catches a whiff of that earthy leather smell that clings to the cotton of his sweatshirt; it's Dean.

When he's finished, Sam drops his plate into the sink and moves about the small cabin that, where it once looked homey and inviting, now looks grisly and terrifying. In the midst of the gore, Dean's leather jacket lays in a heap, dried patches of blood looking like rust against the worn and fading black hide that's pliant when Sam picks it up. He takes it back into the kitchen and wets a dishcloth, scrubs at the darker spots where his blood soaked in. Dean's always taken such good care of his jacket – he's had it for years and nothing to show for every harrowing hunt and hard-won battle they've been through but tears mended with suture-like precision.

Sam tosses the jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs once it's clean and heads for the bedroom. At the bottom of his duffel is a battered, hardcover copy of _War and Peace_ , where, taped to the inside of the dust jacket, is his acceptance letter for Stanford and an envelope of the cash he's been saving up ever since college became a possibility.

The envelope is thick – there was a little over two grand in fifties the last time he counted it in August when he took a hundred out for a new pair of shoes and school supplies. He's added a bit since then, but he's not sure how much. It should get him and Dean at least a couple states away by the end of the week. The wrinkled bills get shoved into the wallet he'd left in his bag and it barely folds closed. He manages and stuffs it into his back pocket where it bulges awkwardly.

Dean finds Sam in their room, sitting on the edge of the nearest mattress with a sheet of paper in his hands. “What's that?” he asks, moving to his duffel to search for a pair of thick socks.

“Acceptance letter. I’m trying to figure out where to leave it that won't seem too obvious so that if Dad comes looking for us, it'll throw him off our trail when he finds it.” Sam doesn't look up when Dean sits beside him.

“So, Stanford, huh?” Dean says, glancing at the embossed letterhead. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“That I let that get taken away from you.” He stretches out one of the socks in his lap, purposely avoiding Sam's curious gaze. “I know how much you wanted it. How hard you worked for it.”

“Dean,” Sam says on a huffed exhale, exasperated. “This isn't your fault.”

“I told you to go! I _let_ you go _alone!_ ” He's shaking, still not looking at Sam. He can't. No matter how you cut it, Dean did this. He let Sam get hurt – more than _hurt_ , he let him get _killed_ and _turned._ He failed the one thing, the _only_ thing, that his father trusted to him. “I let you die. How is that not my fault?”

Sam drops the letter and grabs for Dean's hand, shoves it up under his tee and hoodie and presses the palm against his chest over the raw, aching wound and his steadily beating heart. “Feel that, Dean? I'm _alive,_ okay? I'm alive and I'm fine. I didn't have to go out there last night – that's on _me._ I would've been perfectly safe if I'd've just stayed in here, gone back to sleep like you told me. But I didn't. So, please... Stop blaming yourself.”

“Sam-”

“It's not. Your. Fault.”

Dean's quiet for a long time then slowly withdraws his hand from the warmth under Sam's clothes. “Maybe, when we get wherever we're going, you could go back to school. If you want.”

“What would you do? Keep hunting?”

Dean shrugs. “Not good for much else.”

Sam nods slowly trying to figure out how _'it's just you and me now, Sammy'_ fits in with him working shitty jobs and taking classes part-time at some no-name community college while Dean's off only-God-knows-where hunting. “So, the plan's to, what? Get far enough away from Dad and go our separate ways?”

“ _No,_ ” Dean answers immediately, shadowed eyes rising to Sam's face. “I mean, unless that's what _you_ want.”

Sam stares at his brother, senses the emotions rolling off him in layered waves, some of them conflicting and turbulent. There's hope and hesitancy, fear and a wavering uncertainty. He can see, right there in the wrinkle of Dean's brow and the set of his mouth, that that's not what Dean wants. It's not what he wants but he'll accept whatever it is that Sam does and go along with it. “No, that's not what I want, either,” Sam finally says. “But, Dean... With what I am now, it could be dangerous for you.”

“You're not gonna hurt me, Sam.” They've hurled plenty of pretty nasty words at each other and have tussled more than a few times – yesterday afternoon being a prime example of both – but Dean _knows_ Sam will never hurt him.

“You don't know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“We don't know what's gonna happen when I change, if I'll still be me or just a monster.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Dean claps a hand on Sam's knee and stands, signaling the end of the conversation. He bends over and picks up the fallen acceptance letter and hands it back to Sam. “Fold it so the blank side is out and stick it in the back of that brick you've been lugging around. Somewhere between the pages where the edges won't show. He'll find it.”

“How do you know?”

Dean sighs. “University of Texas, San Antonio,” he says before leaving the room.

Sam stares at the empty doorway thinking of the very first acceptance letter he got last spring. He'd kept it tucked away in the final chapter of _1984._ He doesn't have to ask to know that Dean had somehow found it. That early admission letter had been there for the better part of the summer which means that Dean has known of his plans to leave for at least five months.

“Come on, Sam!” Dean calls from the living room, casting a gaze around for his abandoned jacket. He spots it on the back of a chair in the kitchen, clean. “I wanna get off this mountain before it starts snowing again.”

Sam reverse-folds the Stanford letter and sticks it in the back of his book before placing it at the bottom of his bag.

The front door is wide open when Sam gets to the living room, crisp mountain air alleviating the stench of blood to a bearable level. The fire is smoldering and the room's a disaster. He feels bad, leaving all this for Daniel Elkins and their father to find – the scene doesn't give much away as to what happened beyond a vicious attack. There really aren't any signs of struggle and mostly everything is still in its place save for the pile of bloody blankets in front of the dying fire.

Sam debates closing the door as he leaves the cabin. If he leaves it open, the smell will dissipate that much faster, but animals could get in. If he closes it, the smell might linger and permeate the wood, even in the frigid temperatures, but it could help throw their father even further off their trail. There are plenty of clues, Sam thinks, but none of them add up and only contradict each other.

Dean watches Sam exit the cabin, pausing in the entryway for a couple moments before pulling the door closed. There's not much, if anything, they can take from the trunk of the Impala without their dad noticing, but Dean doesn't want to go traipsing unarmed through woods he's unfamiliar with. But the guns will give them away, as will any of the knives except for the one he always carries. His own gun is a lost cause, somewhere out in the woods, but better off where it lies for John to find when he goes looking.

Sam eyes the few weapons left in the trunk, but there's not much to choose from. There's an old knife, blade chipped and dull, wedged between a couple jugs of frozen holy water in the corner behind the wheel well. It’s only after he grips the hilt that he remembers the reason he kept it: the delicate, silver filigree inlaid in the dark mahogany. He winces and pulls his hand back, fingers curled in a loose fist that he cradles against his chest. “Son of a bitch,” he exhales harshly.

“You okay?” Dean reaches for Sam's hand, carefully inspects his palm, now decorated with fine, red welts that curve and twist like vines.

“I'll be fine. So long as I remember I can’t touch anything that's silver ever again if I want to keep my skin.” He pulls his hand from Dean's gentle grip and closes the trunk. “I'll be fine without. I can pick something up in town.”

 

It's already dark by the time they make it off the mountain and into a sleepy little one-stoplight town. On the northeast corner of the intersection with flashing traffic lights, sits a brightly-lit gas station, and Dean makes a beeline for it, Sam trailing close behind.

Dean's shivering, his nose is running and red, and his lungs ache and burn from too much freezing, fresh air. But Sam, even with nothing but his hoodie to stave off the cold, is pink-cheeked and the picture of perfect health. It's obviously a side effect of what Sam's become, but Dean doesn't want to think about that right now. He just wants coffee, something warm and filling to eat, and a bed to sleep in.

Inside the gas station, Dean goes straight for the coffee pots at the back. Instead of following, Sam heads to the counter where a bored-looking girl somewhere between his and Dean's ages is flipping through the latest issue of _Cosmo._ “Hey,” he says, offering his best aw-shucks smile.

The girl closes her magazine and smiles back at him in return. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, actually. Our car broke down a couple miles outside of town,” he lies easily, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder in Dean's general direction, “and we already called for a tow. I was just wondering if you could recommend a good place to eat and maybe a motel?”

“Yeah. Sure.” She points out the large plate-glass window behind her, towards the stoplight. “Two blocks west, right on the highway, is Dave's Diner. You can't miss it. As far as a place to stay?” She scrunches her face, tawny eyebrows, two shades darker than her frizzy hair, drawn together as she thinks. “Well, the Pines Motel closed down last summer, but you could try the Lark Bunting Inn. It's like a bed and breakfast or something, I think.”

Sam nods at her absently as she reaches for a phone book. “And where's that?” he asks.

“Straight north of here, five blocks.” She flips through the yellow pages and turns the directory around towards Sam. “Here's the number, if you want to call.”

“Yeah, thanks. Could I borrow your phone?”

“Of course.” She grabs the battered cordless from beside the register and eyes Dean – his black eye and his split lip – as he approaches with two styrofoam cups of coffee. Sam detects a hint of vanilla and knows the one Dean got for him is half coffee and half cappuccino, just the way he likes it.

“Just these,” Dean says, chattering of his teeth finally subsiding, passing the vanilla-laced coffee to Sam before sliding two crumpled dollar bills onto the worn surface of the counter top.

Sam's off the phone before the transaction is complete. “There's a room left. I said we'd take it,” he says to Dean before turning back to the nameless gas station attendant. He sets the cordless handset on top of the phone book and slides them both towards her. “Thanks again.”

Dean pockets his change and wraps his stiff fingers around his cup as he follows Sam back outside. “So, what's the plan?”

“You go to the diner, order us some food, and I'll go get us the room at the inn. I'll meet up with you in fifteen.”

Dean stops at the edge of the street and stares at Sam. “You want to split up?”

Sam turns and looks at him with raised brows. “You look like you're five steps away from keeling over, man. And you haven't eaten since this morning-”

“Neither have you.”

“But I feel fine. _We'll_ be fine for fifteen minutes-”

“But, Sam.” Dean doesn't know how to say what he wants to – how to tell Sam he doesn't want to let him out of his sight ever again – without it becoming some majorly embarrassing chick-flick moment.

Sam smirks, understanding, and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. “Fifteen minutes, I promise. Then I'll be right where you can see me.”

Dean shakes his head and pushes Sam's hand away, immediately missing the heat from his wide palm that seeped through his jacket. “Fine. Fifteen. I'm timing you.”

Sam laughs and they part ways at the light. Dean's barely across the street when Sam turns and hollers at him. “Get me a burger!”

Dean waves a hand dismissively, wondering if Sam opting for a hamburger is part of the werewolf thing, too.

 

The diner isn't all that busy when Dean pushes through the door. There are three people at one table, two at another, and two more at the counter along the left wall. He nods at the waitress as he heads towards a table at the back.

The waitress fills Dean's coffee mug when he flips it over and scrawls his order onto the pad she pulls from the front pocket of her black apron. “You want a glass of water, too, hon?”

“Yes, please. Make that two.” He watches the door and sips at his coffee, waiting for Sam.

 

Hazel Bowen, a short, plump woman in her mid- to late-sixties, owns and operates the Lark Bunting Inn. She greets Sam at the door with a welcoming smile and a pat to his cheek. “You must be the young man I spoke to on the phone just a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sam replies, stepping into the dim foyer and closing the heavy wooden door.

“As I told you, I only have the one room available. It has a queen-size bed and a fireplace. A full bath is standard in every room. If you need extra toiletries, I have a small selection of soaps and shampoos to choose from, but I'm fresh out of shaving supplies.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Hazel leads Sam over to a large desk in the corner and situates a ledger book over the desk-blotter calendar. “For how many days will you be staying?”

“Just the night, please,” Sam answers, pulling his thick wallet from his back pocket.

Hazel frowns a little and scrawls something into the ledger. “Name?”

“Uh, Sam Colt, ma'am.”

She scribbles that down, too. “Ninety dollars.”

Sam tugs five twenties free and hands them over. “Could I also get a bar of soap and some shampoo? Maybe some aspirin if you've got it.”

Hazel hands Sam four dollars in change and pulls open a drawer in the desk. She looks into the drawer, then at Sam, then back into the drawer before making her selection for him. “Here you go.” She holds the small travel-size items out to him and takes the last key off a hook on the wooden rack behind the desk. “I'll show you to your room.”

Sam follows Hazel down a hall to the right of the foyer. They stop at the last door on the left. There's a brass '5' level with Sam's nose screwed into the dark wood.

Hazel holds out the pair of color-coded keys. “The key with the green grip is for your room, the blue one is for the front door of the house.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Bowen.” Sam takes the keys and watches Hazel's cheeks go pink.

“Please. Call me Hazel.”

Sam smiles at her and nods. “Hazel.”

“Have a good night, Sam. Breakfast is at eight, checkout at eleven.”

He watches her go before opening the door. There's no time to take in the room just yet – he's only got a few minutes before he's supposed to meet back up with Dean. Instead, he sets the soap and shampoo on the short table just inside the door before pulling it closed and locking it again. He pockets the key ring and the tiny bottle of Tylenol and heads for the front door. The foyer is empty.

 

Sam enters the diner just as the waitress drops two plates of food off at the table in the back where Dean's sitting, waiting expectantly. He gives the waitress a nod and a smile as he passes her and slides into the chair opposite Dean, setting the Tylenol on the table next to Dean's half-empty coffee mug.

“So?” Dean asks, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Well, you won't have to worry about letting me out of your sight,” Sam says, picking up his cheeseburger.

Dean's eyebrows arch a little higher in question as he reaches for the Tylenol bottle, popping off the child-proof lid and shaking out a few white pills into his palm that he swallows with a swig of water.

“One room was all she had left.”

“Uh huh.” Dean waits for Sam to elaborate.

“With a queen-sized bed.”

“ _A_ , as in _one_?”

“Correct. So you better not hog the covers.”

A week ago – hell, a _day_ ago – Dean would've complained and he's pretty certain Sam would've pitched a fit at the idea of sharing a bed. But now, after everything last night... Dean kind of can't imagine not having Sam within arm’s reach in the dark. Sam's watching him for some kind of response so he grumbles, “Better not kick me or you'll find yourself sleeping on the floor.”

“Doubt it,” Sam argues around a mouthful of burger.

Dean gives his brother a pointed look. “Dude. I know you were raised better than that.”

Sam swallows. “Sorry. But I'm starving.”

They eat in silence after that, Dean unable to push the reason _why_ Sam's so hungry to the back of his mind.

When they're done, Sam picks up the tab, adding on a couple pieces of pie and coffee to go. Snow is starting to fall again, already a light dusting on the cracked sidewalk outside. They sip at their coffees as they start the trek down to the gas station and up the slight hill to the inn.

It's barely past eight when they walk through the door and quietly stomp snow off their boots on the mat, but Dean feels like he's been up for days.

Sam leads the way down the short hall to their room, balancing his coffee and pie when he reaches the door so he can get the key in the lock. The door swings open with a push from the toe of his boot and he flips on the light as he steps inside. The color of the grip on the key makes sense now – the whole room is done up tastefully in shades of green. Sam makes himself feel like a girl when he notices the coverlet on the bed matches Dean's eyes.

“Not too bad,” Dean says approvingly, following closely behind Sam, setting down his coffee and pie on the small entryway table so he can close and lock the door before he starts exploring. The first door he opens is a closet which, by deduction, means the other doorway in the large, master-suite-sized bedroom leads to the bathroom. He heads that way and pushes the door all the way open, flicking on the light. The floor is tile, the pedestal sink is bright white porcelain, and the shower stall in the corner is large, all frosted plates of glass and burnished gold. He pokes his head back out the door to look at Sam. “How much did you fork over for this?”

“Ninety bucks,” Sam says, kicking off his shoes by the bay window as he settles onto the cushion of the window seat. “Ninety-six if you include the _toiletries._ ”

“Huh.” He turns off the light as he heads out of the room, makes for his coffee and his pie. He sits at the foot of the bed near Sam, one leg drawn up and bent at the knee on the mattress to balance his plastic container of pie.

“Here.” Sam pulls a pair of plastic forks from his picket and passes one off to Dean.

“Thanks.” Dean flips open the lid and takes a deep breath of sweet apples and cinnamon. The whipped cream on top has mostly slid off and he'd rather have ice cream instead, and his pie warm out of the oven, but it'll do. He tucks in and glances up at Sam, picking at his Boston Cream. “What?”

Sam shrugs and takes a bite, not quite able to hide his grimace.

“What?” Dean repeats.

“It's too sweet, maybe? I don't know.”

Dean figures it's probably just _another_ werewolf thing, but steals a bite with his fork anyway. The chocolate ganache _is_ a bit on the sweet side, more Dean's kind of thing than Sam's. He hands over his box and takes Sam's. “See if that's any better.”

Sam spears a chunk of apple and tentatively takes a bite, hoping his taste hasn't turned strictly carnivorous. The pie's subtly sweet with just the right amount of cinnamon and a perfectly flaky crust. It's not the best pie he's ever had, but it's not giving him a toothache, either. “Much better. Thanks.”

“You're welcome, Sammy.”

It doesn't take them long to polish off their dessert and finish their coffee, then Sam’s heading into the bathroom to rinse the taste of coffee off his teeth and tongue. He takes a moment to relieve himself and wash his hands, then splashes cool water over his face.

Dean's already stripped down to his underwear and tee when Sam comes back out. “I figure we head east.”

Sam nods. “How?”

Dean shrugs. “Find a car? I don't think we'll find a bus around here to take us into Denver.”

“Probably not. So, what? Are we gonna hot-wire one? I though you said no easy-to-follow trails?”

“Somebody's gotta be selling, right?”

“I guess.”

“It's either that or hitchhiking. We don't have a lot of options. And there's no way we're hoofing it there. Coming down the mountain was enough for me.” He stretches and heads for the bathroom, torn between taking a long, hot, relaxing shower and just wanting to fall into bed and sleep for a week. He takes care of business quickly and returns to the bedroom to find Sam in bed under the blankets, lights off save for the lamp on the nightstand next to Dean's side, nearest the door.

Sam feels the mattress shift as Dean climbs into the bed with him, hears the click of the lamp as it's turned off. In the dark, it's harder to ignore the pull he feels towards his brother. It takes an effort to stay on his side and keep his back to Dean.

Dean can't help reaching a hand out, palm smoothing over Sam's shoulder, the hot skin of his bite, until the tips of his fingers graze the soft ridge of Sam's clavicle. “Night, Sam,” he breathes, not moving his hand, settling into the pillow.

Sam covers Dean's hand with his own, grateful for the touch, the connection. “Goodnight.”

 

Dean slowly wakes, comfortable and warm, more content than he can remember being in a long time. He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to wake up completely. He's vaguely aware that Sam's a solid line of heat along his side, his arm flung over Dean's chest and his face pressed into Dean's neck. Sam's gentle exhalations against the sensitive skin lull him back to sleep.

Sam feels Dean shift against him, slows and steadies his breathing to match Dean's, and tries to stay as still as possible. The weight of Dean's arm draped across his back is almost as calming as Dean's scent settled deep in his lungs.

They stay like that for a few more hours, loosely holding onto each other, until Sam wakes again with the rising sun. The world outside brightens by degrees, the curtains shifting from one shade of gray to the next, slowly lightening.

Sam reluctantly rolls out from under Dean's arm and gets a small fire going before he heads into the bathroom for a quick shower. He figures even if Hazel is serving breakfast this morning, he and Dean will have better luck back down at the diner finding someone that knows of a car for sale.

Dean's not sprawled across the bed like Sam expects when he exits the bathroom, but curled on his side in the middle of the mattress with his face buried in Sam's pillow. Sam rubs at his damp hair with the driest edge of his towel and sits down at the end of the bed, reaching out to jiggle one of Dean's feet.

Dean's not really asleep; he had woken up to the muted sound of the shower running and the crackling of the fire. When Sam grabs his foot, he halfheartedly kicks his hand away.

“Up and at 'em,” Sam says, giving Dean's foot another tug.

Dean's tempted to tell Sam to come back to bed, he's warm and comfortable and could probably sleep another good four hours or so, but he doesn't. Doesn't have the luxury of lounging around in bed all day and doesn't even know if Sam would be willing to anyway. With a heavy sigh, Dean flings back the covers and climbs out of bed. His spine pops as he stretches and he feels the pleasant ache of held-taut muscles all the way down to his toes. His clothes from the previous day are haphazardly tossed over a thick-cushioned armchair in the corner by the fireplace, and Dean collects the various articles, making a face at the way the fraying hems of his jeans hold their own shape.

The bathroom is still warm with steam from Sam's shower, the mirror fogged up except for a clear patch of glass roughly twice the width of Sam's hand, a little too high for Dean to see much more of his face than just his eyes.

Dean strips down and climbs into the shower stall, twisting the spigot handle nearly all the way to the left until the water sprays from the large, faux-gold shower head above him, hot and at just the perfect pressure. The steady stream pounds at his back and shoulders and neck, and Dean never wants to leave this shower.

The hot water shows no signs of running out, but Dean reluctantly drags himself from the stall after shampooing his hair and washing his body twice. He towels off and redresses in his day-old clothes, instantly feeling dirty again.

Sam's waiting by the door, boots on, when Dean reenters the room. With a pouting, longing look at the unmade bed, he steps into his own boots and quickly laces them before following Sam into the hall, waiting for his brother to lock the door and lead him towards the front of the house.

There's nobody at the front desk when they get there and Sam doesn't feel like wasting time waiting for someone to show up. He leaves the keys on the blotter and figures it's good enough. He shrugs at the look Dean gives him and starts for the door.

The sky outside is a sheet of low-hanging gray clouds, keeping the sun's warmth at bay and promising more snow. Dean can't wait to get out of Colorado, out of the mountains. “What do you think of Florida? Or Georgia?”

The smile Sam gives Dean says he knows exactly what Dean's thinking, like he's totally transparent. And maybe he is. It's no secret that Dean hates cold weather.

“What? Like you don't want to settle down for a while someplace sunny and warm with half-naked girls just as much as I do,” Dean jokes.

It's not that, Sam thinks. Although the heat of Florida or southern Georgia in summer is a bit more than he can stand, he's not opposed to getting away from the cold of winter in the mountains – more because of how Dean feels about it than he does himself. He kind of likes the seclusion, now. And, as far as scantily-clad girls go, Sam's stomach kind of flips uncomfortably at the thought, especially the idea of Dean with some faceless, tiny bikini-wearing beach bunny. Sam recognizes the feeling as something embarrassingly close to jealousy. “How about we focus on getting a car first? Then we can figure out where to go from there?”

Dean grumbles a response that sounds like agreement and follows Sam into the diner. They take up their table from the previous night, only a few of the locals paying them any mind, and one or two outright staring.

When the waitress comes by with the coffee pot, Sam and Dean both turn their mugs over, and she immediately apologizes for the rudeness of the other customers. “We don't get many new faces 'round here,” she explains, eyes lingering on Dean's bruises for only half a second too long.

“It's fine,” Sam tells her with a sheepish smile solely for her benefit. “We don't mind.”

The waitress, whose name tag reads ANNIE in gold letters on white plastic, gives Sam a smile of her own and glances at him from under her lashes. “Alright, then. Can I get either of you something else to drink? Water? Juice?” She slides menus in front of them.

Sam glances at Dean then back at Annie. “No, thanks. I think we're good for now.”

Annie nods. “Okay. I'll give you a couple minutes to look those over.” With another shy smile at Sam, she leaves their table and makes her rounds refilling coffee cups and clearing away empty dishes.

“Hey, um, Annie?” Sam asks after she comes back to take their orders.

Her whole face lights up with the smile she turns on Sam. “Yeah?”

“Our car died outside of town yesterday and we had it towed into Montrose – apparently, it's not even fixable. So, we're kind of stranded right now. Do you happen to know of anybody selling a car for cheap? We need to get back to Denver by tonight.”

Dean's impressed by Sam's sudden ability to lie convincingly, barely recognizes his seventeen-year-old brother in the conman before him.

“Actually,” Annie says with a tilt of her head, looking thoughtful, “I just might. Let me go put your order in and I'll be right back.”

Once she's out of earshot, Dean backhands Sam's shoulder from across the table. “Look at you, lying through your teeth like a pro.”

Sam flashes said teeth in a blinding grin, Dean's awed praise filling him with the warmth of satisfaction. “I learned from the best.”

Dean smirks smugly and shakes his head at Sam. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

The look on Dean's face and the tone of his voice send heat coiling low in Sam's belly. He's so focused on staying put in his chair and not doing something he might regret that he almost doesn't notice when Annie returns to their table with a newspaper in hand.

“I think the ad might still be in there. Rusty Cosgrove is selling his wife's car. I heard she ran away with a rancher that was working somewhere up north of Grand Junction. But, anyway.” She sets the paper in front of Sam and heads back towards the kitchen.

Sam unfolds the wrinkled paper to the classifieds and finds two ads in the automotive section. He hands the paper off to Dean. “Looks like our options are a '98 Ford diesel or an '89 Chevy Cavalier.”

“I doubt Mrs. Cosgrove drove a diesel,” Dean says, scanning the ads. The price on the Chevy is low – only three hundred – and Dean doesn't know if it's because of the condition or because the guy really wants to get rid of it. “Cavalier would be a bit more nondescript, don't you think?”

“Yeah. Not to mention cheaper on gas.”

Dean nods in agreement then makes a face. “But it's a _Cavalier._ ”

“Feel like you're cheating on the Impala?”

“Kind of, yeah. God, I'm gonna miss her.”

“We'll find something that suits you better eventually. But, for now, I'm pretty sure this car'll get us as far as we need to go.”

“I suppose.”

Sam smiles at the pout on Dean's face and takes the newspaper back from him just in time for Annie to bring around their breakfast.

“Did you find the ad?” Annie asks, sliding their plates onto the table.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Sam picks up his fork and knife, stomach growling at the sight of his steak and eggs, the sausage links on the side.

“Rusty's usually in between eight-thirty and nine. Do you want me to point him out to you?”

“Sure. That'd be great.”

Annie hovers for a moment longer, then she nods once and disappears into the kitchen. Dean eyes Sam, notes the way his brother shovels a forkful of eggs and steak into his mouth and closes his eyes to savor the taste. This new version of Sam is definitely going to take some getting used to.

Sam demolishes his breakfast within a handful of minutes, eating like he hasn't seen food in days. He even eats Dean's other piece of toast before ordering a couple more slices and a side of bacon. Dean marvels as Sam packs it all away.

When Annie comes back around to refill their coffees, she points out a man sitting alone at the counter wearing a Broncos cap.

Dean fishes enough money out of his wallet to cover their bill and leave Annie a decent tip, even if she went a little overboard flirting with Sam. Why that makes Dean feel a little jealous, he's not too sure. He doesn't want to give it too much – hell, _any_ – thought at all.

With an unnatural grace that seems foreign in Sam's lanky, awkward, seventeen-year-old limbs, he slips onto the stool beside Cosgrove, movement so smooth that it immediately makes Dean think _predator._

Sam turns an easy smile on the older man, offering his hand. “Hi. Mr. Cosgrove, right?”

The man eyes Sam, then Dean, from beneath the bill of his ball cap. “Yeah. Who's askin'?”

“Name's Sam Colt and that's my brother.” Sam hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “We're in a bit of a bind. Long story short, we need a car. Annie told us you've got one for sale.”

“You're not criminals or nothin', are ya? On the run from the law?”

Sam laughs in honest surprise. “No, sir. Our car broke down yesterday and isn't worth what it'd cost to fix it. We need to get back to Denver tonight, so...”

Cosgrove takes a sip from his mug of coffee. “Sure, I got a car for sale. Askin' three hundred.”

“Sounds fair,” Sam says. “Wouldn't mind taking a look at it.”

“Well, alright then, son.” He flags down the dark-haired waitress behind the counter. “I'll be back in five to ten, Bethany.”

The girl looks from Sam, sliding off his stool, to Dean, to Cosgrove. “Sure thing, Rusty. I'll let Dave know.”

Cosgrove climbs off his stool and leads Sam and Dean out of the diner. He barely pauses to glance up and down the road before crossing the street and heading for the house on the corner. He walks right up to the garage door, stoops over, and tugs it straight up with the weathered handle. “Was my wife's car and she's gone now. I ain't got no use for it.” He enters the one-stall garage and pulls open the driver's side door, reaches for the keys above the visor. “Y'all wanna look it over?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Dean takes the keys dangling from Cosgrove's outstretched hand after a hesitating moment – he'd kind of forgotten how trusting people in small towns can be. He tosses the keys at Sam. “Pop the hood for me.” He's rewarded with a mock salute as Sam snatches the keys out of midair and heads for the car, popping the hood as requested. Dean gives everything a cursory glance – it all looks well-maintained – and peers over the hood at Sam. “Go ahead and start her up.”

“She's creepin' up on a hundred thousand, but she runs great. Tires were new last year, transmission the year before that.”

“So long as it can get us to Denver by tonight,” Dean shrugs.

“I reckon she'd get you to the Atlantic, at least.”

“I think we might take it, then,” Dean says, giving Sam a nod.

He and Cosgrove back into the yard as Sam pulls the car out of the garage.

“Title and everything's in the glove box. I just need to get the plates off.”

Sam leaves the car running, tossing open the door to climb out and stand beside his brother. Dean's already stripping twenties and fifties off the roll of cash he pulled out of the inside pocket of his jacket. They stand and watch as Cosgrove removes the license plates, then Dean holds out a handful of cash. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Cosgrove.”

The older man nods, counting the bills before folding them over and stuffing them into the frayed breast pocket of his shirt. “Pleasure's all mine. 'm just glad to finally be rid of the damn thing.” He rounds the car to close the garage door as Sam and Dean move to the passenger and driver's sides, respectively. “Have a safe trip to Denver, boys. These mountains can be dangerous.”

Sam exchanges a glance over the hood of the car with Dean. “Thanks, Mr. Cosgrove, we'll keep that in mind.”

Dean's already got the radio tuned to a staticky classic rock station when Sam settles into his seat and they're speeding down the snow-drifted mountain highway in minutes.

 

The fuel gauge needle is just above three-quarters of a tank as they roll into Denver. They've got gas and a decent amount of daylight left, and Dean's just itching to get out of the mountains. A sign at the edge of the highway alerts him that the turn for I-25 South to Colorado Springs is ahead. He glances at Sam. “Change of plans. We're going south.”

“Okay,” Sam says after a moment. It doesn't really matter to him where they go so long as it keeps putting distance between them and their father.

Dean nods. “I just- I gotta get out of Colorado, man. Out of these damn mountains and somewhere warmer.”

Sam actually felt more comfortable with the dense trees and rocky faces of the mountain passes surrounding him than he does in the steel- and concrete-filled city. “That's fine. But let's stick to the smaller towns.” They'll lose the anonymity necessary to hide as well as they've been taught, but the closely-packed buildings that reach into the sky higher than the trees makes Sam feel claustrophobic in a way he never has before, even viewing them from a distance. He's craving open space with dirt and sky and air to breathe. There's not nearly enough time until the next full moon – and, likely, his first change – but Sam already feels the itch of the werewolf's desires deep inside himself. Has felt them all day. If he's being honest, it's more those urges he's worried about than running into their father.

The car cuts easily through the snow drifted over the exit ramp and Dean pushes the gas pedal down a little harder to get ahead of an oncoming semi when he merges onto 25. “Sure thing, Sammy.”

 

Cosgrove was almost right – the car gets them beyond the Mississippi only to die a sputtering, anti-climactic death along the side of the highway in the Appalachian foothills of eastern Tennessee with Sam in the driver's seat. They've barely made it past a nondescript little town – the kind found along stretches of highway in every state that consists of as many bars as churches (three each), a handful of stoplights (seven, if you're counting), a couple of gas stations, a slew of no-name restaurants, and more than a few hundred houses. The perfunctory, seedy motel goes without saying.

The hair on the back of Dean's neck rises the moment he enters the motel office, instinct as much as years of training making him step in front of Sam.

Sam watches his brother go tense and, over Dean's shoulder, he sees the clerk behind the desk drop his scuffed boots to the floor with wide, wary eyes.

The clerk's gaze darts between Sam and Dean before finally settling on a spot somewhere near Dean's right collarbone. “H-how can I h-help you?”

“We need a room,” Dean says, feeling something like satisfaction at the guy's weird, dodgy behavior.

“Single?”

Dean wants to agree, wants to keep Sam as close as possible, but he don't know what _Sam_ wants. This need for nearness isn't normal, Dean thinks and opens his mouth to answer before Sam's interrupting him.

“Single's fine,” Sam tells the man, ignoring the glance Dean throws him over his shoulder out of the corner of his eye.

The clerk's brow wrinkles slightly, gaze darting up to Sam's face then back town to the screen of the loudly whirring computer on the desk. “For th-the night or the w-week?”

Dean turns to look at Sam, takes in the dark circles under his brother's eyes. “The week.”

With a short nod, some typing, and a couple of clicks, the clerk hazards a cautious look at Sam before grabbing a key from one of the desk drawers and setting it on the counter. “That'll be one-eighty.”

Dean pulls his thinning wad of cash form his pocket and peels off the bills, swapping them for the key. “Thanks.”

“Y-you're welcome,” the clerk stutters after them as Dean corrals Sam back out the door.

“Was that weird?” Dean asks, turning the key over in his hand to find the room number on the key ring. “That was weird, wasn't it?”

Sam thinks about the clerk for a moment, the way the man stuttered and was so quick to please even with a hint of fear edging into his eyes. “A little, yeah.” Something about it was off. Why would a man – or anyone, really – respond to them like that, especially when not on the receiving end of the patented Dean Winchester charm?

Their room is at the far end of the motel, well away from the office and the other occupied rooms judging by where rusting, decades-old cars with various out-of-state license plates are parked.

Number 18 has the same weathered, barn-red paint on the outside of the door, black sticker “1” and “8” centered just beneath the peephole. The inside of the room, however, seems in complete contrast with the rest of the motel. The pale gold and cream wallpaper isn't stained or peeling from the walls, the beige carpet isn't worn or filthy, the queen-sized bed looks _inviting_ and _clean,_ and the whole room smells faintly of fresh air and, oddly, crisp apples.

Sam exchanges a surprised look with Dean and moves towards the bathroom. He flips the light on and the bulbs in the sconces on either side of the mirror glow brightly without even a hint of a flicker. The fixtures look fairly modern but the real shocker is that, like the bed and the room outside, everything looks clean. “I kind of feel like we fell into the Twilight Zone.”

Dean opens the armoire on the wall opposite the bed and reveals a large TV. He presses the power button and the screen instantly fills with a clear, bright image. “Me, too,” he says distractedly before turning back towards Sam. “So. Lunch?”

Sam rubs at his belly thinking about the greasy eggs and home fries he had at that truck stop in Arkansas last night. “Yeah. I could eat.”

Dean crosses to the nightstand beside the bed and opens the top drawer, finding a local phone book. A brief scan of the yellow pages gives them a few different options for decent food. Dean also makes note of the fact that the town has a Walmart and a laundromat and adds their locations to his mental list of places to go and things to do. He studies the small town map at the front of the directory and organizes a plan of attack. The Walmart is nearly on the other side of town so they can eat first, go to the store to pick up some clothes and other essentials, make a stop at the laundromat, and come back to the room to crash. Dean's looking forward to sleeping in.

They get a few odd looks and a handful of wary stares as they make their way downtown. Sam's well aware of how rough and unkempt he and Dean look, but he can't find the energy to care about the unwanted attention. Instead, he shadows his brother, stays close enough to touch if he wants, and follows him into another nameless diner.

Just as outside, all eyes are on them the minute they walk in the door. People continue to stare as they slide into a comfortably-worn booth in the far corner. There's a waitress near the counter eying them with a mix of wariness and a bit of curiosity as she scoops up two menus and slowly approaches their table. Dean offers his most charming smile because he's beyond confused now and doesn't know what else to do.

The waitress ducks behind the dark fall of her hair across her eyes as she slides menus in front of them. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” She keeps her gaze focused on the order pad in her faintly trembling hands.

Sam turns the menu over and finds the beverages section. “I'll have a lemonade.”

“Make that two, please,” Dean says, struggling to keep his smile in place because seriously. What the hell's going on?

The waitress nods without looking up and writes quickly on the pad. “I'll get those while you look over the menu.”

Sam shares a look with this brother over the top of the sticky, tri-fold plastic and vinyl holder. “This whole town weirds the hell outta me.”

Dean glances around the diner where mostly everyone's gone back to their meals. “You're not the only one.”

They hurry through lunch, silent, mutual agreement of a need to escape the obvious looks that are making Dean increasingly paranoid and Sam nervous. It's a testament to how unnerved Dean is that he doesn't ask about dessert, even though the case advertising freshly baked pies is right in their line of sight.

The still-nameless waitress catches and holds Dean's gaze as they head to the register to pay their bill. There's something about her eyes that reminds him of Sam, but he'd be hard pressed to say what, exactly, that is.

Something hot flares up in Sam's chest when he catches Dean and the waitress staring at each other. He grabs Dean's wrist and hauls him outside, surprising even himself at the sudden display of possessiveness. At Dean's wide-eyed expression, he tries to explain and fails because he _still_ has no idea what the hell is going on here. “I don't- Sorry, Dean.”

Dean rubs at his sore wrist – Sam's getting stronger. “Don't worry about it, Sammy.” He gives his brother a tentative smile and heads further down Main Street, away from their motel.

It's probably a good mile and a half trek across town to the Walmart and Dean already has a rough list of things they both absolutely need formed in his mind. For starters, they'll need bags big enough to carry all their essentials, including any weapons they'll accumulate. They'll each need a few pairs of jeans, shirts, at least a week's worth of socks and underwear, jackets and boots, a hoodie or two for Sam. Not to mention all the little things like shaving supplies and toothbrushes, deodorant and shampoo.

After they get all the basic items – except for the boots because Dean's leery of their quality and thinks he might've seen a farm supply store listed in the phone book, too – they round up enough food to last them the week. Then Dean grabs a small box of cheap detergent and declares them ready to go.

The laundromat isn't too far from their motel, just a block and a half further than the diner had been. And, while they'd still gotten a few stares at Walmart, they'd been considerably less than before. It seems like all bets are off, however, once they get back onto the street. “You get the clothes started while I get rid of the rest of this,” Dean tells Sam, helping to unpack their recent purchases. “I'll be back in fifteen.”

While Sam doesn't want to be left alone, he doesn't want to argue with his brother, either. “Okay,” he sighs. Dean ruffles his hair as he heads for the door and the action brings a smile to his face instead of the usual angry protest. Dean returns his smile through the dirty plate-glass window at the front of the building. Almost as soon as Dean disappears from view, Sam feels a surge of panic he has to fight down – an urge to go and make sure Dean's okay and Sam's aware enough of his changing body and everything else to determine that the need to be close to his brother at all times is yet another werewolf thing. Sam thinks about his display of possessiveness earlier and wonders what that means as he unceremoniously dumps a scoopful of detergent into the washing machine.

Dean makes quick work of putting their food away when he gets back to their room and does his best to ignore all the eyes tracking his every move the moment he steps outside to head back to the laundromat. Sam's at a table near the front with a newspaper in front of him when Dean returns, and he accepts the wrinkled section Sam pushes towards him without looking away from whatever he's reading.

Dean settles into the wobbly chair across from Sam at the chipped formica table between a row of washers and the dryers that line the wall. He kicks at Sam's shoe which earns him Sam's hysterically sorry attempt at an arched brow. “You're such a dork,” he laughs easily, opening up the newspaper nearest to him. He finds a crossword towards the back of the section and makes a mental note to save it for his geek brother.

From across the table, Sam watches Dean dog-ear the page of the paper with the crossword. It's a small gesture, but it strengthens that weird, warm feeling that fits all snug in his chest when he catches his brother's eye. He knows what they're doing is right and that they'll be okay.

Dean watches Sam transfer their clothes from the washer into the dryer, quietly reads aloud an interesting article about animal attacks that sounds like it could possibly be their kind of gig.

Sam eyes Dean as he feeds quarters into the machine. “I read a similar story. But that was in the Knoxville paper. You've got, what? The Tennessean?”

“Yeah. Out of Nashville.”

Sam turns back to the paper he'd left open to the local news. “This isn't an AP story.” He reaches for Dean's paper. “And neither is this one.”

“Think they're not bear attacks?”

“Out here, near the mountains, maybe. But in Nashville?”

“Said it could've been a coyote,” Dean says, tapping the paper. “Wendigo?”

Sam's skeptical. “I don't know. That's way too large a hunting ground, don't you think?”

“Dad's journal said...” Dean bites his lip, trying to conjure up an image of the page in his mind. He can see the sketch of the creature – sharp claws, long limbs – and his father's hasty scrawl underneath. “Most of the ones reported were based out of the state parks, so, I guess, yeah. That'd be bigger than usual.”

It would be so much easier if they had Dad's journal or even Sam's, as incomplete as it was. Anything would be better than the nothing they've got now. The idea of starting a new hunting journal from square one is daunting.

“Least we could do is ask around here, find out what the locals think.”

Sam has to laugh aloud at that. “Because they've seemed so welcoming to us this far.”

Dean shrugs. There's not really much he can say to that.

When the laundry's done, Sam sets to folding their shirts and jeans, rolling them up and wedging them into the bottoms of their bags to save space, just like their father taught them. He watches Dean pair the socks and fold their underwear. Sam's left out a pair of sweatpants and a tee for each of them. The clothes they've been wearing for the better – or worst – part of a week are liable to stand on their own once removed.

Hefting his bag over his shoulder, Dean shoves his chair in with a hip and gathers together all the loose pages of the newspapers. “You ready?”

Sam pulls the straps of his own bag onto his shoulders and gives Dean a nod.

Back in their room, Dean turns on the TV and drops his bag in front of the short dresser before collapsing on the side of the bed closest to the door with the remote and a bottle of water. He watches Sam disappear into the bathroom with his clean sweats and listens to the faint sound of Sam moving around over the low volume of the TV. Sam emerges ten minutes later in gray sweatpants and a white tee, collar turning translucent where his hair is dripping. Sam grabs his own bottle of water before hesitantly settling next to Dean.

Sam's skin itches and he feels anxious, like he's waiting for something. They're in the middle of an old _Stargate_ episode when he rolls onto his side to look at Dean. “When do you think it's gonna happen?”

“What?” Dean asks, reaching for the remote to turn the volume down lower.

“When do you think I'm gonna... _change_?”

Dean mutes the TV and rolls onto his side to look at Sam. “The full moon's not for a couple more weeks yet,” he says quietly. “Probably then. Why?”

“I just... I feel strange.”

“Strange, how?”

Sam shrugs his shoulder and rests his head on his bent elbow. “I don't know,” he sighs. “Like... my skin doesn't fit.”

“Well,” Dean says, sinking down onto the mattress close to Sam, close enough to look him in the eye, “we still have two weeks until the next full moon. We've got plenty of time to... figure something out. And we don't even know for sure-”

“I _died_ , Dean. _And_ I was _bit._ I think it's pretty safe to say we're _sure._ ”

 

Dean wakes to Sam shivering and hot beside him, whimpering low and miserably. He fumbles for the bedside lamp, blinking against the sudden brightness as he turns to look at Sam. He nearly falls off the bed in his shock at the sight of his brother changed, a massively dark and shaggy hulk of a dog – _wolf_ \- curled in on himself. Sam – wolf Sam – lifts his head and looks at him with familiar hazel eyes as a sharp whine resonates in his throat. Dean hesitates for the briefest moment before stroking his fingers through the fur between Sam's ears.

“So... I guess the whole full moon thing isn't accurate,” he says.

Sam pushes into Dean's hand, settles his chin on Dean's knee, and huffs a sigh. He’d been feeling off all day, his body trying to tell him something was going to happen. But it had never crossed his mind that the change would occur so soon.

Just as Dean's getting himself resettled, something scratches at the door. It makes Sam's ears perk up and twitch forward. With a sigh, Dean climbs out of bed and crosses the room to pull back the curtain on the window next to the front door. There's a dog – probably a wolf – smaller than Sam pawing at the door frame.

Sam growls from his place on the bed, rising to his feet, and barks towards Dean and the unfamiliar animal.

The wolf outside immediately drops to its belly, head resting on its paws.

Sam jumps down to the floor, moves to stand next to Dean, and growls even more darkly at the door.

Dean watches the wolf on the other side scamper away into the darkness at the edge of the wooded lot, tail tucked between its legs.

 

Sam stays in his wolf-form for days and Dean has no idea how to change him back. It's obvious the lunar cycle isn't to blame, so they know that bit of myth is false. Everything Dean knows about werewolves comes from movies and TV, and he knows how much of all the other stuff people get wrong, so he sets out for the library to get some books and start researching whatever he can to separate myth from fact.

The clerk in the motel office eyes Dean warily as he comes and goes. Dean's afraid to leave Sam alone for too long, but doesn't have much of a choice sometimes. Early every morning and late every night, Dean takes Sam outside to let him stretch and breathe fresh air and do his business. Every time he goes out, without fail, Sam sniffs all the way around their room and Dean has to wonder if they've had more visitors than just the one wolf Dean saw that first night Sam shifted.

There's a knock in the door late Wednesday afternoon while Dean’s scouring the selection of mythology books he was able to check out from the local library's surprisingly decent collection. There's a young woman outside the door who appears to be no older than Dean and has one of those don't-I-know-you-from-somewhere? familiar faces.

When Dean opens the door, she peers around him and smiles at the sight of Sam sprawled out on the foot of the bed. “Alpha,” she greets with a slight nod of her head.

Dean's immediately taken aback, but he's pretty sure he understands what she means, based on his admittedly limited knowledge of wolves and the hierarchy of their packs.

“Hi,” she says, slipping through the narrow gap between the wall and where Dean's currently acting as a doorstop. “I'm Charlotte. I hope you forgive me for just showing up, but I heard rumor and had to come see for myself.”

“See what?” Dean asks, slowly closing the door while keeping his eyes on their uninvited guest.

“About a year ago,” Charlotte starts as she holds her hand out for Sam to sniff at, “our Alpha lost his mate – she'd been sick for a long time, so we were all kind of expecting it. Our Alpha, though, wasn't as prepared as we thought and his grief slowly drove him mad.” She glances up at Dean, tilting her head towards Sam. “This wolf here carries a scent very similar to the Alpha's, so I'm guessing you've been in some kind of contact with him.”

On the bed, Sam snorts.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Dean tells her. “Jumped my brother in the middle of the woods in Colorado a couple weeks ago.”

“Colorado?” Charlotte repeats, eyebrows drawn together. “We thought he was still here in Tennessee.”

“Because of those so-called _animal attacks_ in the papers?”

Charlotte narrows her gaze at Dean. “What do you know about those?”

“Me and Sam weren't exactly raised like most people. The articles caught our attention and seemed to be related to each other.” Regardless of how nonthreatening this girl seems, Dean doesn't know a thing about her and he's not gonna go into his and Sam's full life story just because she's divulged a couple interesting bits of info.

“So, if Joseph's in Colorado – or _was,_ anyhow – that means he's not responsible for the recent attacks. And that means there are half-breeds on the loose.” Charlotte's nose wrinkles in disgust when she spits out 'half-breeds.' “This is bad for the pack.”

“Bad for the _pack_?” Dean echos, flinging out a hand to gesture at his wolfed-out brother. “This is bad for _Sam!_ He never wanted to be a werewolf, much less the _Alpha._ ”

“Whoa,” Charlotte interrupts, holding up a hand, the hard, angry look on her face melting into a half-smile. “Your brother's not the Alpha.”

“But you called him...” Dean's confused. And judging by the tilt of Sam's head, so is his brother.

“It's a term of respect. Like 'sir' or 'mister.' He's a dominant and ranks higher than me in the pack. Hence, _alpha._ Just as you'd be _beta_ , if you were a 'wolf.”

“What?” Dean shakes his head. “No. I'm older and I've always taken care of Sam. I'm not a- a _beta._ Or wouldn't be if I was all...” He trails off as he gestures at Sam gain.

“Alpha, beta, most times it's more a personality thing than a birthright thing. Alphas have a tendency to be rather stubborn and independent whereas betas enjoy having rules and orders to follow, and taking care of their alphas.” Charlotte glances down at Sam, catching sight of Dean's many books scattered across the cream-colored comforter. “You're not gonna learn much from those. C'mon and get your things together. I'll take you back to the house and you can learn all about what your brother is,” she says as she scratches behind Sam's ear.

Dean and Sam exchange a look that doesn't go unnoticed by Charlotte.

“Just trust me, okay? I've got no reason to lie to you.”

Dean defers to Sam. As much as he wants to keep his brother safe inside, away from all those staring, nosy strangers, he can't keep Sam from doing what he wants. Especially if what he wants is to be with other werewolves and learn about what and who he is now.

Sam slowly stands on the mattress and hops down to the floor, crossing the room to sit in front of Dean. With a dip of his head, he tells Dean that he trusts Charlotte and thinks they should go with her.

“You know this is ten kinds of crazy, right?” he says to Sam.

Sam snorts and cocks his head in response.

“No crazier than you turning into a dog,” Dean concedes.

Behind him, Charlotte huffs. “ _Wolf._ We're quite a bit smarter and obviously more evolved than _dogs,_ wouldn't you say?”

Dean just rolls his eyes and starts gathering their things together. Within five minutes the room looks no different than it did when they first checked in, except for the pile of library books on the table by the door. Dean shoulders both his and Sam's bags before opening the door and gesturing Charlotte through. After Sam follows her out, Dean grabs the stack of books and pulls the locked door closed. “So, you got a car around here or do I have to carry all this stuff like a pack mule?”

Sam snorts in amusement, tongue lolling from his smiling doggy mouth.

Charlotte looks like she's preparing an eye roll of her own but hooks a thumb over her shoulder instead. “I'm parked by the office. Think you can manage that far?” Without waiting for a response, she turns back around and starts walking towards the far end of the building.

Sam lurches to all fours and pads along behind her for a few paces before glancing back at Dean with a bark.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters. “I'm coming.”

 

Charlotte's beat-up Honda Civic rattles discouragingly when she turns off the two-lane highway onto a gravel lane marked with a mailbox, peeling vinyl numbers on flaking white paint, and a fence of leaning, wooden posts. The house at the end of the lane is a sprawling three-story with dusty blue paint, white trim, and a wrap-around porch. Every single person – or werewolf, probably – loitering around outside stares at them unabashedly. They're not the same kind of stares as they'd gotten in town, but they're unsettling nonetheless.

Dean climbs out of the car when she stops, folding his seat forward to let Sam out of the back and grab their bags and his books. When he closes the door, the clear coat flakes away where it's bubbled up in gray patches on the black paint and sticks to his hand. It makes him think of the Impala and he can't imagine the car in a state like this. He shakes his head and brushes his palm off on his jeans, turning to follow after Sam.

On their way up to the front door, a 'wolf slightly smaller than Sam with a sandier coat tears around the corner of the house and makes a beeline for Sam, yipping excitedly and wagging his tail as he dances around the new addition to their pack.

And there's no denying it, no matter how much Dean wants to, but Sam is a part of this messed up family. Sam managed to find this place and these people because somehow, some part of him just _knew_ where they'd be. Dean forces himself to smile at Sam, let him know it's alright, then Sam's sniffing at his new friend and yipping right back.

“That's Ray,” Charlotte tells Dean, taking the stack of books from him. “He's one of Joseph's kids.”

Dean wonders if that makes Ray and Sam something like brothers, seeing as Joseph's responsible for what Sam's become. Dean nods and keeps his mouth shut, not really wanting to know the answer.

The front door opens as Dean and Charlotte start up the stairs to the wide porch revealing a man in dark-washed jeans, a gray shirt, and bare feet. The salt-and-pepper of his beard puts him close their dad's age, but that's where the similarity to John ends. His blue eyes flick from Sam and Ray to Dean, then to Charlotte.

“Hi, Patrick,” Charlotte says with a bright smile. “This is Sam and his brother...” She trails off as she glances over at Dean, seeming to remember he never gave her his name.

“Dean,” he says, standing a little straighter. He can tell by the way the man is holding himself that he's probably in charge, the capital-A Alpha now that Joseph's gone AWOL. Dean offers his hand and feels Charlotte hovering close like whether or not Patrick shakes it is important. And maybe it is – maybe Sam and Dean aren't going to be welcome here and Charlotte will get in trouble for dragging them along with her without the Alpha's permission.

Dean doesn't have to worry about Charlotte – not that he would've anyway – because Patrick takes his hand in a firm grip and greets him with a warm smile. “Welcome to our home.” He looks over to Charlotte when he releases Dean's hand. “Why don't you show our guests to one of the spare rooms? Then we need to talk.”

That doesn't sound good. Perhaps Charlotte _isn't_ off the hook. She nods at Patrick and leads Dean into the house.

Dean turns and whistles at his brother. “C'mon, Sammy.”

Sam glances up from the winter-brown patch of grass he's been rolling around in, upper lip pulled away from his teeth in a mock snarl for being called like a dog. He trots across the yard and up the stairs, nipping at Dean's knee as he passes.

Dean trails along behind Sam and Charlotte through the house and up a wide staircase. They climb two flights of stairs with landings between each floor until they're on the third story. An ornate navy-scarlet-and-cream floral-patterned carpet runs the length of the hallway. Halfway down, Charlotte stops and opens a door, leading Sam and Dean inside.

Sam starts sniffing at the worn floorboards, nosing around Charlotte's feet as she moves to set Dean's books down on a utilitarian desk beneath the window. “Do you need anything right away” she asks, crossing back towards the door.

Dean steps out of her way and shakes his head. “No. Not that I can think of.”

“Okay. The bathroom is right across the hall. There should be towels and washcloths in the armoire. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” With a deep breath she backs out into the hall.

Dean listens to her fading footsteps before closing the door. “What do you think, Sammy?” he asks, dropping their bags on the floor at the foot of the bed before sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

Sam stops his exploration of the small room and pads over to Dean, resting his chin on his brother's knees. His ears twitch and he sighs.

“Yeah, it's okay, I guess.” Dean strokes his thumb up between Sam's bright hazel eyes before burying his fingers in the thick chestnut fur behind his head. “Think you'll change back anytime soon, dog breath?”

A low growl is the only warning Dean gets before Sam jumps up and knocks him onto his back, covering his face in slobbery kisses. Once he's satisfied, Sam settles all his weight on top of Dean and refuses to move.

As heavy as Sam is on his chest, Dean doesn't try to push him away. It's oddly comforting and reminds him of when Sam was a kid and still enjoyed being held. After a couple of minutes, though, Dean's left leg starts to fall asleep from the way Sam's resting on his hip. Bracing his right heel on the bed frame, Dean tips them both sideways. “Your fat ass was cutting off my circulation,” he explains.

Sam presses his wet nose against Dean's neck and huffs out a breath in retaliation making Dean groan in disgust.

They're both dozing when Charlotte quietly knocks on the door and comes in without an invitation almost an hour later. “Sorry,” she says, flipping the light switch on the wall behind her, making the dim room almost painfully bright.

With a jaw-popping yawn, Sam stretches, muscles shaking, and moves to sit at the foot of the bed.

Dean sighs and stands, rolling his head side to side to relieve some of the tension in his stiff neck. “So?” he prompts.

“I told Patrick what I know from what little you told me. There's nothing we can do about Joseph right now because he's out of our territory. However, we have to look into those animal attacks in Nashville and Memphis because the timing of them can't simply be chalked up to coincidence.”

“Patrick's okay with us being here?”

“I won't lie to you – most of the pack, Patrick included, is wary, but Sam smells like family, so...”

Dean can figure out what she's too afraid or too embarrassed to say. Sam isn't the problem; it's Dean they're worried about. “We can help you figure out what's causing the attacks, track it down,” he offers, hoping if he proves himself to the pack they'll be more accepting of his presence. “It's kind of what we do. Or _did_ , I guess.”

Charlotte nods slowly. “I'll talk to Patrick. It would be a good learning experience for Sam, get in some training of his heightened senses before he shifts back.”

“How soon do you think that'll be? He's already been like this for over a week.”

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Is this his first shift?”

“Yeah.”

“A few more days, maybe. He should've shifted soon after he was bit. But, since he fought the change for so long, he'll likely stay in his wolf form for a while.”

“But he will change back, right?”

Sam barks sharply, a reminder that he's _right there_ and they're talking about him like he's not. Dean pats the top of his head apologetically.

“Of course. Once he's comfortable and feels safe, he should shift back to his human form without a problem.”

That's a relief and a weight off of Dean's shoulders. “Good.”

“Well, I'm sure you're both hungry,” Charlotte says after a moment. “I'll take you down to the kitchen and talk to Patrick about you guys coming along with us tonight.”

Dean follows when she heads out into the hallway. “You're going tonight?”

“Yeah. We have to find them before the full moon otherwise we risk not only more people getting hurt or killed, but more people getting infected resulting in more half-breeds.”

“If they don't turn until the full moon, how do you know who to look for or where?”

“By scent. Humans have a distinct smell, as do true werewolves. It's a... natural scent. It smells _right._ Half-breeds smell _wrong,_ unnatural. They reek, actually – but only in the days leading up to the full moon as their bodies prepare for the transformation. Otherwise, the rest of the month they smell like regular people. It's got something to do with the virus.”

“If it's a virus,” Dean starts as they reach the ground floor, “then can't it be cured?”

“The only thing that can _cure_ it is having the werewolf gene, like I do. Or like Sam obviously does. Being brothers, you have it, too.” She leads them into a large kitchen at the back of the house, the two people at the table picking up their plates at the sight of Dean and retreating through another doorway. Charlotte rolls her eyes and pulls an elastic hair tie off her wrist to gather her long, mousy brown hair into a ponytail. “From what I understand, quite a few people have the gene. It's just dormant.

“The people that have it are more sensitive to werewolves, which is why you might've noticed a few stares in town.”

Dean scoffs. “It was more than a few.”

Charlotte pulls a loaf of bread out of a drawer and opens the fridge, returning to the island in the middle of the kitchen and setting an armload of sandwich-making ingredients down on the counter. As she starts opening containers of lunch meat, she continues, “This was werewolf territory before anybody settled the town of Madisonville. When the village was built, some 'wolves left the pack to live among the humans and passed down the gene. Because they didn't shift as often, or maybe not at all, the gene's kind of _locked,_ I guess. Getting bitten by a werewolf will unlock it when the virus is passed on.”

“So the virus is like a key,” Dean says, accepting the sandwiches Charlotte puts on a plate and pushes in front of where he's sitting on a stool on the other side of the island. “And when you don't have the lock the key fits into, you become a crazy, howl-at-the-moon, claw-out-peoples'-hearts monster? Good to know.”

Tilting her head to the side, Charlotte gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.” She sets a plate of quartered sandwiches on the floor for Sam before finding a bowl to give him water. “There's no way to _fix_ a half-breed because you can't just give them the gene. And they can't control what it makes them become.”

“They _have_ to be killed,” Dean says around a mouthful of turkey, lettuce, and tomato.

“It's the only way to keep people safe.”

Dean understands perfectly. He's just glad that Sam apparently has this werewolf gene. It's a weird thing to feel thankful for, but their situation s could've been a _lot_ worse.

“I'm gonna go ask Patrick if you can tag along. I'll be back in a few.”

After finishing his simple dinner, Dean gets a glass of water and cleans up after himself and Sam. He returns the loaf of bread to the drawer and the turkey and other sandwich fixings to the refrigerator while he waits for Charlotte to come back. He sits down at the island again and glances at Sam. “You think Dad has the gene? Maybe that's what makes him such a good hunter.”

Blinking, Sam cocks his head to the side, ears perking up a little.

“I mean, it _could_ be an explanation, right? That he'd be more sensitive to other supernatural creatures?”

Sam huffs and gives Dean a short bark like maybe he disagrees.

“Of course, Dad was also a marine, so he was trained to track things down.” He shrugs. “Doesn't mean the two are exclusive.”

Sam still, somehow, looks skeptical. Even if they could ask, there's no way to know for sure. It's not like their dad would know if he carried some kind of dormant werewolf gene — or if their mother did.

That's when Charlotte returns, a kid about Sam's height with sandy blonde hair in tow. “Dean,” she says, “this is Ray. He volunteered to ride with us.”

Dean offers his hand and they shake briefly. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Ray says, glancing up at Dean quickly before turning his attention to Sam. “Hi, Sam.”

For a moment, Dean wonders how the hell the kid knows Sam's name then remembers that they already met. It makes him ask, “Do you guys communicate telepathically in your wolf forms?”

“I wouldn't say it's _telepathy,_ but there's a lot of intuition involved in deciphering each other's vocal patterns,” Charlotte says, pulling a set of keys out of her jeans pocket. “It's not like we can read minds or anything, so.”

“Got it.”

“Do you need to get anything before we go?”

“Yeah. My coat's upstairs,” Dean says.

“Okay. We'll meet you out front.” She leads Ray and Sam through the sliding glass doors behind the large table in the corner. A security light illuminates the deck outside and the side of another building beyond the railing that could be a garage or, possibly, a barn.

Dean quickly retraces his steps back upstairs to his and Sam's room to retrieve his coat and, on second thought, the knife he usually keeps in his boot. Better safe than sorry.

True to her word, Charlotte is waiting in front of the house for him when Dean makes his way outside. “I'm gonna let you drive,” she says, leading him toward the dark-colored sedan that isn't the Civic she was driving earlier – the four doors is the obvious giveaway. “It'll be easier for me and Ray to change in the back.”

“Okay,” Dean says with a nod before opening the driver's side door and sliding in behind the wheel.

Sam barks happily in greeting from beside him on the bench seat. Dean reaches over and ruffles the fur on the top of his head backwards so it stands up in clumpy little spikes. Sam whuffs and headbutts Dean's shoulder before retreating to his side of the seat.

“So, where'm I going?” Dean asks once he's got his seat belt buckled.

“For now, just follow that white van,” Charlotte tells him. “I'll let you know when to turn off the highway when we get closer.”

 

The trip into Nashville takes quite a bit longer than Dean was figuring on. After three hours on the road, it's approaching eleven, and they finally pull off the highway so Charlotte can direct Dean through the unfamiliar streets. In the suburbs on the south side of the city, he parks the car along the curb in the dark residential area. He pointedly averts his gaze out the window while Charlotte and Ray strip in the backseat.

Charlotte yips from the back a couple minutes later and Dean belatedly remembers their distinct lack of opposable thumbs in their wolf forms. He climbs out of the car and opens the back door for Charlotte and Ray before rounding to the other side to let Sam out. One of the other cars from their small convoy is parked a block down the street, changed 'wolves already running off, disappearing into the darkness.

They only have two days until the full moon, so there's a lot on the line tonight. The purpose of this mission isn't just to determine where the survivors of Joseph's rampage are but to take care of any threats. They know there are at least two, possibly three, half-breeds in Nashville judging by the distance between the locations where the most recent victims were found, but there could be more.

They're at the center of those three sites now and everyone is fanning out to search house by house. Charlotte has taken Sam under her wing to train him, and Ray lopes along a few paces ahead, nose to the ground. Dean feels useless, out of his element, because he can't track like they can.

The three werewolves meander slowly down the sidewalk so Dean can keep pace, and he's aware all the while of their silent, nearly telepathic conversation as Charlotte teaches Sam how to distinguish a true 'wolf scent from a half-breed. From the way Charlotte talked about it earlier, it seems like it's impossible to mistake one scent for the other.

But Sam trots along beside Charlotte, sniffing away at whatever scents he's able to pick up. He successfully leads them to a quaint one-story with peeling gray-white paint and a large front porch. Dean hangs out in the shadows of the bare trees that line the street as Sam, Charlotte, and Ray circle the house. He makes note of the address and falls into line behind the 'wolves once they're ready to move on again.

One of the 'wolves from the other car is leaning against the side of the Taurus in his human form when they make their way back. He opens the back door for Charlotte so she can shift back and Dean overhears him tell her that four other houses and an apartment complex carried the distinct stench of half-breed.

Whey they're all back in the car, Charlotte directs Dean to follow the other 'wolf's car to a motel out on the highway, ordering him and Sam to stay behind after she rents them a room.

Sam can't exactly voice a complaint, but Dean can tell he's upset about being left out by the tone of his growling bark. Charlotte promises that he can tag along when they head over to Memphis for a repeat of tonight's fun, and that seems to appease Sam for the moment.

Regardless, nearly an hour after they leave, Sam’s anxiously pacing the floor in front of the window while Dean attempts to catch a nap. “ _Sam,_ ” Dean huffs exasperatedly, raising his forearm from where it was slung across his eyes so he can glare at his brother. “Chill.”

Sam ducks his head beneath the curtain, standing tall on his hind legs to glance out the window before shuffling around the end of the bed, climbing up to sit next to Dean and nudge at his brother's elbow with his nose.

“You even think about moving and I'm shoving you on the floor,” Dean warns, settling further back into his pillow.

Sam whuffs a quiet bark and rests his chin on Dean's chest after a minimal amount of squirming to find the most comfortable position along Dean's side.

It's nearly sunrise before Charlotte and the others return. She looks tired and worn out when she wakes them, telling Dean it's time to move on to Memphis. Dean almost feels guilty for being fully rested when he follows her out to the car.

The drive to Memphis takes another three hours and Charlotte gives him the directions to another motel – the 'wolf community in Madisonville must have connections throughout the entire state considering how quickly Charlotte is able to get them enough rooms for the fifteen or twenty 'wolves in their group – then tasks Dean and Sam with bringing breakfast back for everybody else while the rest of the pack takes the opportunity to get some much-needed rest.

Dean spends the whole day cooped up in the motel room with Sam, watching documentaries and reruns until he can barely stand to look at the TV. When the sun sets, Charlotte drops by to collect Sam. “I won't let him out of my sight,” she promises.

As confident as Dean is that Sam'll be able to take care of himself, he's slightly worried about how their training will translate over to Sam's wolf form. He nods. “Okay.” Crouching down, he scratches Sam behind his ears. “Be careful, Sammy.”

Sam licks Dean's chin then ducks away to go stand by the door.

“We'll be back later tonight,” Charlotte says, opening the door for Sam and following him out.

 

Dean barely slept while the pack was out tracking down and taking care of the half-breeds in Memphis. One managed to elude them – scent lingering, but no half-breed to be found – and Charlotte worried over it most of the ride back. It leaves Dean both physically and mentally exhausted by the time he parks the Taurus behind the house late Friday morning. Sam, on the other hand, is quivering beside him with nervous energy. It's obviously more than just the high of hunting with the pack last night.

“It's the full moon tonight,” Charlotte says after Dean glances over at his brother for the millionth time since they left Memphis. “It can't make us change, but we still feel its pull. Most of the pack will run later – it helps reinforce the pack bond.”

Nodding, Dean climbs out of the car, waiting for Sam to follow him before closing the door and returning the keys to Charlotte. “You should probably take Sam with you before he shifts back, then. I think he'd like that.”

Sam barks happily and dances around Dean's feet as they all head inside.

“We'll leave around sunset. I'll come get him then,” Charlotte says after a minute.

Dean nods again and leads Sam up to their room, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for a week. Of course, he only manages a couple of hours with Sam constantly shifting next to him on the mattress before Charlotte is knocking on the door, telling Sam it's time to go. Dean hovers at the edge of consciousness until Sam slobbers all over his cheek in his enthusiastic goodbye. He bounds off the bed and trails after Charlotte.

When the silence of the night beyond Dean's window is broken by excited barks and joyous howls, he finally gets up. After a quick shower to wash off the past couple of days, he makes his way down to the kitchen to scrounge up something for dinner. He kind of expects to have the run of the house while the pack is off bonding under the moonlight or whatever, and he's not disappointed. Or, rather, he kind of his. The house is huge and silent except for the occasional squeaky floorboard, and Dean's completely alone.

The noise he makes as he scrambles a couple of eggs and fries some bacon seems excessively loud, even when he tries to be quiet. It's a little disconcerting, sitting at the long table all by himself, with only the clank of his fork against his plate as he eats.

He wonders if it's always going to be like this, feeling separate from Sam and this new life that's been pushed on them. It's only been a couple of days but it already feels like there isn't enough room here for Dean, like he doesn't fit. And that's not really far from the truth – he's a human among werewolves, the one that stands apart. As long as he stays who and what he is, that's always going to be the case. Unless...

Dean shakes his head. Sam getting bit was an accident. If _Dean_ were to get bit, it would be a choice – he'd be making the conscious decision to become one of the things their father trained them to hunt down and kill. It's one thing to protect Sam; it's always been Dean's job to take care of his brother. But to _become_ a werewolf – he can't make that choice.

Staring out the window at the moonlit darkness, Dean methodically finishes his dinner. When he's done, he quickly cleans up after himself and puts his dishes away, straightening up until there's no trace of him left in the kitchen.

It's still pretty early when he retreats back to his room. After digging his new journal out of his bag and locating the pen he'd closed in one of the library books, Dean settles at the desk with it's bright little lamp and loosens the tieback on the curtain so he doesn't have to look at the pale, glowing moon hanging low in the sky. Carefully, he writes down everything he can remember about what Charlotte told him about the virus, the half-breeds, and the werewolf gene; the way the 'wolves communicate; the span of the territory; the number of 'wolves in the pack. 

It keeps Dean busy for a few more hours and he pushes himself to complete his thoughts on the possibility of his father being a carrier of the gene before he gives in and packs his journal away so he can go to bed. The last thing he hears after he turns out the light is a distant howl.

He's sprawled on his belly, left hand under his pillow, right reaching out towards the window, when Sam finally pads into their room in the early hours of the morning. The night was a rush of scents and sounds and Sam's whole body pleasantly aches as he climbs up onto the bed and burrows his head under his brother's outstretched arm. He breathes Dean's scent in deep, lets it fill his lungs and replace the crisp coolness of late winter with its warmth. For the first time in days, he feels like he can really relax.

The thin, dark blue curtain does nothing to darken the room against the sun's brightness in the morning. And for all that it's bright, it doesn't actually do much to warm up the room. Sam wiggles under the blankets to escape the chill and nuzzles his cold nose into the hollow of Dean's throat.

It's the feel of Sam's arms snaking around Dean's waist that pulls Dean from his light sleep. He didn't realize just how much he missed _this_ version of his brother, but the relief at the sight of the mole on Sam's bare shoulder is overwhelming.

Sam hums contentedly when Dean's arm tightens across his lower back to keep him close. It's a moot gesture, because Sam has no intention of moving anytime soon. He's comfortable and safe in his brother's embrace and there's no place else he'd rather be. There's no place else he's _supposed_ to be. Right here, with Dean, he's home.

 

It's strange how quickly and easily Sam's adjusted. He's still different, but now he’s the _same kind_ of different, so he fits in perfectly. It’s Dean's who’s the odd man out.

It's difficult for Dean to ignore how excluded he feels, especially when Sam spends so much of his time with Charlotte, Ray, and a bunch of other true-born 'wolves, learning how to use his new skills and strengthening his muscles through some sort of special training that he apparently excels at. But Dean’s never seen Sam so relaxed and content before – not in any town or school they’ve ever stayed in – so he tries to stay out of the way.

While Sam's off at high school during the day and werewolf obedience school after, Dean studies the local and regional newspapers to find hunts to keep himself occupied. He limits himself to easy jobs, things he can take care of quickly with minimal research, so he's not away from Sam for too long. Things will be changing soon enough as it is, with Sam making a place for himself here.

It's unconscious at first, but Dean finds himself pulling further and further away, putting more and more distance between himself and Sam as their days with the pack fade into weeks, weeks into months, then suddenly spring is flirting with the warmth of early summer.

When he can no longer put it off, when he feels like his time with Sam is running out, Dean pulls Charlotte aside. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks, catching her in the kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of April.

“Sure,” she says, putting a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, and a package of cheese slices away in the fridge before loading bags of frozen vegetables into the freezer. “What about?”

Dean settles on one of the stools at the island. “Has Sam ever mentioned anything to you about school? I mean, like his plans for college?”

Shaking her head, Charlotte braces her forearms on the counter opposite him. “No. Why?”

“He had – or _has_ , I guess – a full ride to Stanford. But when we left, we kind of used his acceptance letter to leave a dummy trail for our dad to follow if he ever came looking.”

“Bummer. That sucks.”

“Yeah. Sam was really looking forward to it. To getting away from the way we were raised, moving around all the time.” Dean looks down at his clasped hands. “He just wanted to _stay_ somewhere. Put down roots. And he's done that here.” Here, with the pack, is the closest Sam has ever been to that stable, normal life he's always wanted – as ironic as it may be.

Charlotte nods. “He has,” she agrees.

“Is college still a possibility for him, do you think?”

“Yeah, Dean, of course,” she says. “As a matter of fact, Ray's going to a college here in town this fall.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don't think Sam applied anywhere around here, so-”

“Actually,” Charlotte starts, leaning forward and ducking down to meet Dean's eyes, “one of the admissions officers is a 'wolf. Just leave everything to me.”

Dean shouldn't be as surprised as he is – he knows they've got connections, but the werewolves in the Tennessee pack seem to have infiltrated all kinds of organizations. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sam's smart and he's a really good kid.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, swell of pride not nearly big enough to drown out the ache of Sam moving on to such bigger and better things without him. “I know.”

“Don't worry about a thing.” Charlotte reaches across the counter to squeeze his wrist. “I'll make a couple of calls later and we should know something in a day or two.” She smiles at him before turning back to the task of putting away groceries.

“Thanks,” Dean says, standing, hanging around the kitchen for a moment longer before nodding at nothing and heading outside to the garage where Charlotte's Civic sits, waiting for Dean to change the fuel filter. He putters around, checking the oil and the spark plugs, just trying to keep himself busy and away from the 'wolves who only tolerate him because of Sam.

 

Sam carries a platter of hamburger patties out to the deck where Patrick is manning the grill. Ray follows him through the sliding door with packages of hotdogs wedged under one arm and at least four bags of assorted buns dangling from his other hand. “Happy birthday, Sam,” Patrick greets him, taking the platter from his hands and placing the patties over the flames.

“Thanks,” Sam says with a smile, slightly distracted as he scans the group of people – friends he's made at school and the 'wolves he's grown somewhat close to alike – gathered around the deck holding cans of soda and eating the chips he'd set out earlier while they wait for the burgers and hotdogs. He doesn't see his brother anywhere.

“I think I saw Dean inside with Charlotte a little bit ago,” Ray says with a smirk before taking a bite of a raw hotdog. “If that's who you're looking for.”

Sam rolls his eyes. Ray likes to tease him about his relationship with Dean every chance he gets. He doesn't seem to understand what Sam's life was like growing up no matter how many times Sam tries to explain it. He and Dean have always been close, and this whole werewolf thing – at least, in the beginning – only seemed to make them closer. Lately, though, as Sam's gotten used to being a 'wolf and as the pack has slowly started to accept Sam as one of their own, Dean's become guarded. Sam doesn't let himself think about it very often, seeks out his brother when his worry gets the better of him, and Dean's presence never fails to calm him down.

“Grab me a clean plate your way back out?” Patrick asks when Sam starts for the sliding door.

“Sure,” Sam nods, pushing aside the screen and heading into the kitchen. He can hear voices down the hall in the living room, the deeper one immediately recognizable as Dean's.

“Thank you again,” Dean says, sounding relieved and grateful and more sincere than he has to anyone in a while, outside Sam.

“I told you,” Charlotte sighs, “it was nothing. I was happy to help.”

Sam rounds the corner of the hallway and enters the living room, interrupting the conversation. “Hey,” he says, stepping further into the room, uncomfortable with how close Charlotte is standing to Dean, “I was looking for you.”

Dean taps the white legal-sized envelope in his right hand against the palm of his left and looks over at Sam, forcing a smile onto his face. “I was just about to come looking for _you._ ”

Charlotte stands there, between them, for half a second longer before clapping her hands together and backing away towards the hall. “Well,” she says, “I'm gonna go see if Patrick needs any help. I'll see you guys in a bit.” She lays a hand on Sam's shoulder as she passes. “Happy birthday.”

Sam nods at her and moves closer to Dean. “What's that?” he asks, jutting his chin towards the envelope.

“This,” Dean starts, glancing down at the object in question, “is for you.”

“Obviously, it's not a pony,” Sam jokes, noting the strain of Dean's fake smile and wanting nothing more than to make it real.

Dean huffs a laugh and lifts a hand to the back of his neck, squeezing at the tense muscle before ruffling the too-long hair at his nape. “No, not a pony. Maybe next year, if you're good.” He holds the envelope out to Sam, just wanting to get this over with.

Sam tears open the sealed flap the moment he takes the envelope from Dean, upending the package and dumping the contents into his waiting hand. There's a maroon and gold folder, thick with papers, as well as a single sheet of letterhead boasting Hiwassee College across the top. Sam scans the letter, feeling his mouth fall open as his eyes catch on “congratulations” and “your acceptance” and “academic excellence.” He has to reread the letter twice before he can make complete sense of what he's holding in his hands. Shaking his head, he lifts his gaze back up to Dean. “How?”

“I told Charlotte about Stanford and she helped me out. It's pretty much the same deal Stanford gave you – a full-ride so everything's covered. Tuition, room and board-”

Sam grins at him and laughs, glancing back down at the acceptance letter in his hands with amazement. “I'll just live with you,” he says.

“You can't, Sam,” Dean tells him, looking away and wishing like hell he could've avoided having to explain this part today of all days. When he turns his gaze back on Sam, his brother looks baffled. “I'm not staying.”

“Not...” Sam trails off, his happiness draining from him dizzyingly fast, voice turning hurt and hard when he demands, “What happened to 'it's just you and me, now,' huh, Dean? Was that just- just a _lie_?”

“No,” Dean says firmly. “Of course not.”

“Then, _why..._?”

“Because I don't fit in here, Sam. Not like you do.”

“But that's easy to change,” Sam argues, shaking his head, eyes wide and imploring. “Just let Charlotte or Patrick or- or even _me_ -”

“I don't want to be a werewolf. I'm sorry, Sammy, but I don't.”

Sam's not sure if he's more hurt or angry or heartbroken or devastated. Probably all of those things. But as much as he wants to hate his brother right now, he knows that Dean is probably feeling the same way, to some extent. It doesn't make _him_ feel any better. So he grits his teeth and nods, tries to act like the adult he’s fought tooth and nail to be seen as. “When are you going to leave?”

Dean's heart aches at the look on Sam's face. “I'll stay until you start school and get settled in.”

“So, what? Three months? Four?” That doesn't seem like enough time, but it's better than nothing. Dean's right about Sam fitting in here, with all of these people that finally make him feel normal and accepted. But, he realizes, this isn’t the only time he's ever felt this way. All his life, he and Dean have been fundamentally the same, fitting together with an ease that he’d always taken for granted because he didn’t know any different. The kicker is that it's taken Sam changing, becoming something else, for him to be able to see that. And now, just when he thinks he's getting what he always wanted, he's realizing he already had it.

Dean nods. “The beginning of September, I figured.” He hates the idea of leaving Sam alone here, but it doesn't feel like there's anything else he can do. Sam's never really liked life on the road or the job.

“What if... What if I came with you?” Sam offers suddenly, like he can read Dean's mind.

“Sam...” Dean doesn't want to argue about it, doesn't want to have to convince Sam that he should stay when Dean would so much rather he didn't. “Just try, okay? I know it's not Stanford, but...” Dean shrugs. “Besides, it's safer here for you. Less chance of somebody else finding out what happened to you. Less chance of you ever running into Dad.”

“I'm not worried about Dad,” Sam says. “I'm worried about _you_.”

“Don't be, Sammy. I'm a big boy now.” Dean tries for a smile but knows it looks as fake as it feels.

“Doesn't change the fact that you'll be out there on your own with nobody to watch your back.” That scares Sam more than he's willing to admit.

“I'll be fine,” Dean sighs. “And I can check in with you all the time if it'll make you feel better.”

“I'd feel better if you'd just stay.”

“I know.”

“But you won't.”

“I _can't,_ Sam. There's a difference.”

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out. He doesn't want to fight. “Then I guess we've got a lot of work to do before you go. I mean, it won't be easy to find a car nearly as cool as the Impala.”

Dean takes it as the truce it is and smiles at Sam before pulling him into a hug.

 

If Sam ignores that Dean's leaving in a matter of weeks, this has been the best summer he's had, probably ever. He still hangs out with the other 'wolves, especially around the full moon, but most of his time is spent with Dean. They've been on a couple of hunts, but usually they do things they never really got the chance to; they go to the movies, a couple concerts, camping a few times. Lately, though, Sam's favorite thing they do is spend hours elbow-to-elbow with Dean under the hood of the '73 Chevelle Sam found for him in the classifieds.

Every day for the past month they've been out in the garage, slowly fixing the car up. Nearly everything that makes it run needs to be replaced – the body and the interior are practically pristine, almost identical to the Impala except for the pearlescent sheen to the black paint. Sam knew, the moment he laid eyes on the car, that it was perfect for his brother. And that it's a project car makes it even better.

That's where they are early Saturday night, filthy with sweat and grease, when Ray barrels out of the house calling Sam's name.

“Charlotte,” he starts, bracing a hand against the door frame. “She got a call- a call from Ben.”

Sam vaguely recognizes the name, knows that it's not one of their pack. “Okay. And?”

“That half-breed we lost track of? It's back in Nashville. Or, was. Ben said it's a musician at a club in Atlanta right now and that there's, like, seven more of 'em after another _wild animal attack_ last month.”

“Let me guess,” Dean sighs, picking up a rag and wiping off his hands. “Everybody's gotta drop everything to get to Atlanta before the full moon tonight.”

Sam rolls his eyes at the tone of Dean's voice. On one hand, he can understand that Dean's annoyed because this is the only time the pack will accept his help, but on the other, this isn't any different than the way their dad used to make them pack up and move on to the next hunt. “How soon do we have to leave?”

Ray glances over at Dean, looking slightly apologetic. “As soon as possible.” He holds up a set of keys, the neon pink rabbit's foot identifying them as Charlotte's. “She said we could take her car.”

It's a peace offering. Sam snatches them out of Ray's hand before Dean can, grinning cheekily at his brother. “We'll go get cleaned up quick. Come on, Dean.”

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Dean closes the hood of his car and follows Sam towards the house, hip-checking him at the door so he can get inside first. They push and shove at each other all the way upstairs, only separating when Sam trips him in the hall outside their room and ducks into the bathroom across from it. “Cheater,” Dean accuses, reveling in the muffled sound of Sam's laugh before the shower turning on drowns it out.

Sam showers quickly, scrubbing at his hair then the dark streaks of grease all over his arms. He's in and out in only a couple of minutes and finds Dean pacing the short length of their room in his boxer-briefs when he opens the door. Sam's 'wolf reacts almost physically to the sight, the need to touch – to claim – so strong for a moment Sam's afraid he won't be able to stop himself.

Thankfully, Dean doesn't seem to notice, side-stepping Sam with that resigned look on his face he always gets when he's begrudgingly allowed to participate in 'werewolf business.'

The need to be closer to Dean has been getting stronger all summer and, at first, Sam thought it was the knowledge of Dean leaving soon that had him wanting to spend as much time as they can together. But the way Sam's 'wolf is getting so possessive, he's afraid it might be something else.

He's dressed by the time Dean comes back and quickly makes his escape with the excuse of pulling the car around.

Dean watches Sam hurry from their room, thinking – not for the first time – that Sam's acting a little stranger than usual. He chalks it up to the dwindling number of days they have left together. As much as Dean's itching to get back on the road, he's dreading the idea of having to say goodbye and leaving Sam behind.

As he finishes getting dressed and sits down on the edge of the mattress to pull on his boots, he hears Sam – it has to be Sam – lay on the horn out front. Dean can't help but smile as he rolls his eyes, tucking his laces behind the tongues and rushing outside to where Sam and Ray are so obviously impatiently waiting.

Sam grins wider when he sees Dean's scowl, honking the horn again as his brother clomps down the porch stairs.

Dean throws open the door and slides in behind the wheel, thumping the bottom of his fist on Sam's thigh. “Serves you right,” he says, not feeling the least bit guilty when Sam starts massaging the Charley horse Dean gave him.

“Jerk,” Sam says with feigned grumpiness.

“Bitch,” Dean fires back with a brilliant smile. He catches sight of Ray rolling his eyes at them in the rear view mirror and is half tempted to leave him with a Charley horse, too.

 

They're not that far behind the rest of the pack – twenty minutes, tops – but as they're nearing the city, Ray gets a call from Charlotte on his cell phone. Dean glances back at him through the mirror as he answers and only catches Ray's half of the conversation. “Hello?... What?... Oh. So, where- … The bus- … Birmingham?... Yeah, okay... Twenty?... I- yeah. Okay... Bye.”

“What?” Dean asks when Ray puts the phone away.

“Ben told Charlotte that the half-breed we're looking for just got on a bus to Birmingham. She said to take the exit for 20 or start heading west as soon as we can.”

Sam shifts in his seat to look at Dean. “Any idea where the bus station in Birmingham is?”

“No, but we'll find it. I bet we'll even get there before the bus if it's just leaving Atlanta now.” Dean's confident that this will be a cake walk. Between him, Sam, and Ray, this half-breed doesn't stand a chance – they've got the upper hand and the element of surprise working in their favor.

They see signs for Greyhound and Amtrak the closer they get to the center of the city, the stations less than a mile apart. Sam knows they're going to have to act fast because there will likely be a lot of people around – witnesses and potential victims alike. They can't risk the half-breed turning while out in public or escaping them again. The thought of the coming hunt sends a rush of adrenalin through Sam's veins until he's practically buzzing with anticipation. He feels like he's finally able to prove himself to the pack.

Dean parks outside the station and turns off the car. “I'm gonna go in and find out when the bus is supposed to arrive. Don't go too far.” He glances into the backseat to see Ray nod in agreement before climbing out. “I'll be right back.”

The bus is running behind schedule and isn't due for at least another ten minutes according to the woman behind the plexiglass window at the ticket counter. Dean heads back outside, finding Sam and Ray sitting on the curb next to the car.

“All I smell is hamburgers and grease,” Sam says when Dean steps through the automatic door.

“The bus isn't here yet. Should give you some time to wolf out if you need to.”

Sam shares a glance with Ray. “As public as this place is, I don't think we should shift.”

Ray looks a little uncertain himself. “It's one thing, in the dark, with nobody around... But we're in the middle of the city.” He looks up at Dean. “Should I call Charlotte?”

Dean shrugs. “It's up to you. I'm just the driver.”

Rolling his eyes, Ray digs his cell phone out of his pocket. “That's bullshit and you know it.”

Sam smirks at the expression on Dean's face. Somehow during the summer, Ray apparently adopted them into his nonexistent family, a little motley crew of misfits consisting of the three of them and Charlotte, and nobody really had much of a choice in the matter. Sam secretly thinks Dean enjoys the way Ray idolizes him. “What would you do if this was any other job?” he asks.

“Any other job,” Dean starts, leaning against the side of the car, “and I would've started by casing the guy's place. I mean, it is a guy, right?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, shoving the phone back into his pocket. “No answer. They must be tracking already.”

“We don't even know what this guy looks like. You're gonna have to get close enough to smell everybody as they come off the bus. Then we'll follow him and hope he doesn't get on another bus or take off in a cab right away. Worst comes to worst, I've got my silver knife on me. I can brush past him and-” He jabs his fist into the air in front of him, miming stabbing someone in the chest. “It's not ideal, but...” Dean shrugs.

Sam nods and stands, offering Ray a hand up. “I guess we should go wait, then.” He gestures around the side of the building where he can hear at least two other buses are idling loudly, the acrid scent of diesel exhaust burning in his nose.

They've only been loitering beneath the brightly lit awning for a couple of minutes when a bus pulls into one of the open spaces. Dean gives Sam a single nod; this is the bus they're here for.

There aren't many people aboard, but the half-breed is easy enough to identify by the guitar case he's carrying. As the passengers start to disembark, Dean waves Sam and Ray to the right, to go around the buses and approach from the opposite direction so they've got him covered from both sides.

The man is moving slowly, nearly staggering on his feet, his head turning in little jerks as he glances around like a paranoiac. He looks like he's drunk or maybe tweaking and most of the other travelers give him a wide berth as they collect their baggage. Except one. There's a girl with him that gestures at the station over her shoulder before he nods at her. She's already making her way towards Dean when Sam and Ray come around the rear of the bus. “Shit,” he curses, trying to glance after her subtly as she walks by. “Sam? Can you hear me?”

Sam can smell it, just under the heavy exhaust – the stink of half-breed. His skin crawls at the scent, his 'wolf itching to shift and kill. It's a borderline-terrifying feeling, the urge to rip something apart, and Sam's never felt it like this before, not even in his wolf form. Of course, Dean was well out of harm's way the last time Sam encountered a half-breed.

“That's it, right?” Ray asks from a step behind him, tilting his head towards the man with messy long hair in a ponytail and a beat-up jean jacket covered with tattered patches. He has a guitar with him and is headed towards the road.

“Yeah,” Sam says with a nod. “I'm gonna follow him. Go get Dean, but try to keep some distance between us, okay?” He doesn't wait for Ray's affirmation before walking away.

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean whispers loudly as his brother trails after the man with the guitar case, but it's apparent Sam can't hear him over the sound of the buses. He manages to make eye contact with Ray and nods his head towards the terminal.

Ray shakes his head, though, as he starts walking over to Dean and hooks his thumb back at Sam.

Dean shakes his head, too, and hold up two fingers.

Surprise evident on his face, Ray jogs the rest of the short distance to Dean. “What?”

“He wasn't alone. I think there's are two of 'em.”

“What do we do?” Ray looks about ready to panic.

“We have to make sure. Sam'll be fine on his own for a minute. Come on.” He leads Ray through the door into the station and is stopped almost immediately by Ray's hand on his elbow.

“Yeah, I can smell another one.”

“It's the girl in the purple tank top heading down the hall to the bathrooms,” Dean says, watching her stagger not unlike her companion.

“Should we follow her?”

“I'll go.” He can sense Ray's nervousness, doesn't want the kid to give them away. “If she manages to get past me, you might need to follow her.”

Ray nods, easily accepting Dean's justification. “Okay. I'll wait right here.” He drops into a plastic chair against the wall with a clear view down the hallway.

Dean claps him on the shoulder before following after the girl, thankful to see the swinging door of a multi-stall restroom. Glancing back down the hall to make sure no one besides Ray is watching, he ducks into the women's bathroom.

She's standing right there, shaking, hands braced on either side of the middle sink. Slowly, she lifts her head to look at him. “This is... It's the women's-” she gets out before gasping in pain as her knees buckle, sending her sprawling to the floor.

Dean knows this is the best shot he's going to get and reaches for the knife tucked into his boot. Suddenly, she starts convulsing and he hesitates–

His window of opportunity is gone because, the moment her body stills, Dean sees that she's changed. Her fingernails have turned into claws, teeth into fangs, eyes gone cold and distant. She moves faster than Dean can anticipate and is on him before he can free his knife. Her sharp teeth sink easily into the meat of his left shoulder and the pain is immediate and immense. “Fuck!” he grits out, trying to shove her off, but she's so strong.

The door slams open not even half a second later, Ray staring wide-eyed at the scene on the floor in front of him, then he's bending low to tackle the half-breed were off of Dean. It gives Dean enough time and enough room to get to his knife. Its handle is proudly jutting from the center of her chest before he registers what he's doing.

In the moment of silence that follows, Dean collapses back against the wall and takes a deep breath. “Dude,” he says shakily. “You just totally saved my ass.”

Ray laughs with relief. “Yeah, I did.” He rises from where he's kneeling on the floor, humor slowly draining from his face as he sniffs at the air. “Are you bleeding? Did she- Did she _bite_ you?”

Dean presses his hand to his shoulder with a wince, palm coming away blood-stained. “You can't say anything to Sam, Ray.”

“Dean-”

“Promise me. You can't tell him.” Dean can't believe this is happening now, after everything. Just over a month to go and everything is falling apart.

“I won't,” Ray finally agrees. “But _you_ have to. He's gonna figure it out eventually. Sooner or later, your scent's gonna change, _you're_ gonna change. He'll be pissed if you keep this from him.”

Dean shakes his head and slowly climbs to his feet. “I'm gonna clean myself up quick. Go check on Sam and see if he needs any help.”

Ray stands there looking like he wants to argue some more but he just scoffs and shoves through the door.

After wiping down anything he or Ray might have touched, Dean retrieves his knife from the girl's chest and cleans the blade before tucking it away in his boot. There's not a whole lot he can do for his shoulder so he does his best to pad the bite mark with paper towels and hope the bleeding stops. As an afterthought, he swipes some of the girl's blood over his shoulder hoping its scent will mask the smell of his own blood. He washes his hands again and carefully exits the bathroom, unhurriedly making his way through the bus station like he didn't just kill a girl.

Sam and Ray are waiting for him by the car when he comes out, Sam looking pleased with himself and Ray looking vaguely peeved. “So there were two?” Sam asks, pulling open his door to let Ray climb in the back.

“Yeah. There were two,” Dean confirms, settling in behind the wheel, doing his best to appear uninjured.

Sam groans a moment later as Dean's pulling out of the parking lot. “Oh, man, crack a window – you _stink._ I can smell its blood on you.”

“You sure you're not smelling yourself?”

Scoffing, Sam preens in his seat before cranking his window open. “I was careful not to get any blood on me, thank you very much. It's a long ride back and I didn't want to be reeking of half-breed all the way home.”

 

Dean takes great care to keep his bite wound a secret from Sam and Charlotte. It finally starts to heal after a couple days, around the same time the rings he usually wears start giving him a rash. He's worried Sam's going to notice and put two and two together, but he doesn't. He's more focused on helping Dean get the Chevelle running than he is on the fact Dean's not wearing any of his jewelry.

It's not until a couple a weeks later when he and Charlotte and a couple other 'wolves are helping Sam and Ray move in to the little three-bedroom farmhouse not far from the college that he's finally found out.

He and Sam are trying to fit the couch they got for cheap from the furniture store downtown through the front doorway when the shoulder of Dean's t-shirt gets caught on a splinter on the frame. It stretches the worn fabric, making the collar gape, and bares the pink scar for anyone to see.

Sam's gaze is drawn to the mark immediately and, for a moment, he's angry and upset that Dean tried to keep this from him. But in the next, his heart feels like it's lodged somewhere in his throat. “When were you bit?” he asks, dropping his end of the couch. “And why didn't you tell me?”

Dean drops his head back and looks up at the ceiling with a sigh. “Back in Birmingham. And I didn't tell you because it doesn’t change a damn thing,” he says. “I’m still leaving. And I didn't- I _don't_ want to spend my last few days here with you arguing about it.”

It dawns on Sam then, why Dean isn't reacting, isn't panicking; his brother doesn't know that something's _wrong._ “Dean,” Sam says quietly with a small shake of his head, not quite knowing how or where to start. He doesn't know how to tell his brother this. Doesn't know how it's even _possible._ Dean's been bit, he's been infected with the virus, but his scent hasn't changed. And there's only one thing that that can mean.

Sam can see the realization drain the color from Dean's heat-flushed, freckled face. “What?” he says weakly, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “No. _No._ There's no way.”

“I don't- Let's find Charlotte, okay? Maybe- maybe she knows what's... what happened.”

“We _know_ what happened!” Dean yells, drawing attention to them. “And now I'm-” He can't finish the sentence. It was bad enough when he thought he was going to be a 'wolf like Sam. But to be a half-breed were – one of those blood-thirsty, barely human monsters? He'd rather eat a bullet from his own gun.

Sam can see the gears spinning away in Dean's mind, knows instinctively what his brother’s thinking. It wasn't long ago that Sam went through the same thing, the same thoughts. “Maybe- maybe we can fix it!” he blurts, trying to head off Dean's train of thought.

“The only thing that's gonna fix this is a silver .45 caliber round.”

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam feels sick at Dean's flippant remark, clambers over the couch wedged in the doorway to roughly grab his brother by the front of his sweat-damp tee. “ _No._ Just, no. I'm not- We'll figure this out. We'll figure this out and we'll fix it.” He holds Dean close and stares him in the eye before giving in to the need to touch, bringing their foreheads together. “You wouldn't kill me when I asked you to. You wouldn't give up on me. I'm not giving up on _you._ ”

“Sammy, this is different. You can control what you are-”

“But we didn't know that when I first turned. Just- Let me _try._ At least give me that.”

Dean swallows hard past the lump of angry fear stuck in his throat and finally nods, a faint, jerky movement that Sam probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't felt it. “Okay.”

For a minute, everything around them is silent and Sam knows, without a doubt, everyone within earshot just heard their whole conversation. “Is it true?” Charlotte asks from somewhere over Sam's shoulder, voice shaking and distressed.

“Yeah,” Dean says, not meeting her eyes. Behind her, the other 'wolves look anxious and wary.

“I know somebody that I think might be able to help,” Charlotte says, moving closer to them as she glances down at the watch on her wrist. “If we leave now-”

“Okay,” Sam says, bolting up off the couch, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to follow her to anyone that might have a solution for this. He looks up, expecting Dean to be right behind him, but his brother hasn't moved from the other side of the doorway. “What are you waiting for? Come on!”

Dean doesn't see the point in getting Sam's hopes up just to watch them get crushed when they're told what they already know: there is no cure. But Sam looks like he might fall apart at any moment and Dean does owe him the same benefit of the doubt he gave Dean. He climbs over the couch and follows Sam to Charlotte's car where she's already waiting, engine running.

“Wait!” Ray calls, running after him. “I'm coming with.”

“So, who is this somebody you think can help?” Dean asks Charlotte, unable to keep the tinge of sarcasm out of his voice, once they're on the way into town.

“He's kind of like the pack doctor,” she says, glancing over at him, completely unfazed by his tone. “I mean, Dr. Mitchell is a real doctor and everything, he's just a werewolf, too.”

One of these days, Dean's not going to be surprised when she tells him things like this. Well, if Patrick and the rest of the pack let him live long enough to grow accustomed to how established the pack is in the community.

Dr. Mitchell's family practice is in a little blue converted house a block off of Main Street. A graying man in dark slacks and a white dress shirt is locking the front door as they pull up along the curb. He turns to look at the car, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow before he recognizes Charlotte.

“Dr. Mitchell!” she cries, throwing open her door. “We need your help!”

Dean doesn't hear what she says to the man when she reaches him, but Dr. Mitchell glances over at Dean with a mix of curiosity and pity on his face, then he nods solemnly at Charlotte and unlocks the door.

Charlotte gestures for the rest of them to get out of the car and follow her inside where Dr. Mitchell invites them all to have a seat in the small waiting room. Without any prompting, she launches into the whole story – what she knows of it, anyway – and Dean's taken aback by how much she obviously cares about him and Sam.

Dean feels like a bug under a magnifying glass with the way Dr. Mitchell is staring at him. “I've never heard of anything like this happening,” he finally says. “You're certain that neither of you are adopted or that you're half-siblings?”

“Yes,” Sam says, irrationally angry at the idea that their parents aren't their parents or that their father lied to them about something this important.

The doctor nods, seeming to sense that he's offended Sam, and takes a step towards a hallway to the left of the desk in the corner. He waves for Sam and Dean to follow him down to what's obviously one of the exam rooms. “There's no other reason for this that I can think of. As brothers, you should both carry the gene.” He shrugs helplessly, opening a drawer beneath the counter along the wall and retrieving a couple of phlebotomy kits. “It's unprecedented. The only thing that may give us some insight to what's going on is a thorough genetic test. I have a colleague at the University of Tennessee in Nashville that could probably run the analysis.”

The doctor doesn't take much blood from them, by their usual standards, at any rate.

“How long will it take to get the results?” Dean asks, smoothing a band-aid over the bleeding puncture mark. He's not sure what a genetic test is going to tell them that they don't already know, but if it makes Sam feel better, he'll do it.

“I would think we'd have them back in a week or so depending on how soon he can run the tests.”

“We don't have that kind of time,” Sam says frustratedly. “The full moon is in a little over a week and-”

“One shift won't hurt you as long as you keep yourself restrained,” Dr. Mitchell tells Dean.

“He doesn't want to shift at _all_ ,” Sam very nearly yells, barely keeping his volume in check. He doesn't understand why the doctor isn't taking this as seriously as he is.

“I'm sorry,” Dr. Mitchell says calmly. “I don't know what you want me to tell you. There's nothing more I can do for you but pass along blood samples to my colleague in Nashville. I should have results in at least a week. That's plenty of time before the next full moon to determine why the virus triggered your gene but not your brother's.”

“What if...” Dean starts, swiping his hand over his mouth. “What if I just don't _have_ it?”

“Then you'll be a half-breed were, slave to the lunar cycle,” Dr. Mitchell says plainly.

“What if _I_ bite him?” Sam suggests.

“I wouldn't advise it. You could make yourself sick.”

“Well, what about a blood transfusion? I mean, if it's in the blood-”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts, voice hard. “Let it go. You tried.” He knew this was a long shot but it's obvious that Sam was expecting some kind of miracle. “Sorry, Sammy,” he tells his brother before reaching for Dr. Mitchell's hand. “Thanks, doc.”

Sam watches Dean leave and is about to follow him when he's struck with another idea. “What about a sedative?” he asks, hesitating in the doorway. “Dean doesn't want to shift, so,” he shrugs, “if he's sedated he can't, can he?”

“It's a possibility,” Dr. Mitchell says slowly with a nod of his head. “Of course, there's no way of knowing what the proper dosage would be to inhibit the change. Too much could put him in a coma, too little and he could wake before the moon's effect passes.”

“But there would be signs, right? Like, we could give him a normal dose and see how long he stays out before he starts moving, and give him more at whatever that interval is, right?”

“It _could_ work, but Sam, this could lead to more harm than good. Aside from the possibility of overdose, there are risks to using sedatives – your brother could end up dependent on them.”

“It would just be temporary,” Sam argues. “Just until we can figure out how my blood is different and why Dean's didn't react the same.”

“So long as it's temporary,” he finally concedes, moving over to a locked cabinet on the far side of the room. Dr. Mitchell draws out a handful of glass vials that he settles into a nondescript white paper bag. He goes over the proper dosage and shows Sam how to use the hypodermic needle to administer the sedative intravenously. “Be very, very careful with this,” he tells Sam, handing over the bag and a supply of syringes.

“I will,” Sam promises. He knows the dangers, what's at risk. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Dr. Mitchell says, leading Sam back out to the waiting room.

“Thank you, Dr. Mitchell,” Charlotte repeats, standing to shake his hand.

“I'll let you know how the blood analysis goes, what we find out as _soon_ as we find out,” Dr. Mitchell tells Sam. “Take care of your brother. As... unpleasant as being a half-breed must be, it's not the end of the world if you can manage him.”

Sam nods, biting his tongue at the hit of derision he can hear in the doctor's voice, and slips out the front door. As grateful as he is, now that the panic has receded, Sam has to wonder why he and Dean are getting special treatment. Any other half-breed would be heartless by now.

Dean's pacing in the street in front of Charlotte's Civic, hands laced behind his neck, head down as he scuffs the soles of his boots against the cracked asphalt. He glances up at Sam when the door opens, squinting against the sunlight, gaze dropping to the paper bag in Sam's hands.

Sam gives Dean a tentative smile as he approaches. “Well... the good news is that we've got a temporary solution to keep you from changing.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks offhandedly, trudging over to the car when Charlotte and Ray exit the doctor's office. “What's that?”

Sam holds up the bag. “We're gonna knock you out.”

“Gonna shoot me full of horse tranqs or something?”

“Not quite, but close.”

 

There's a small room in the farmhouse's finished basement that was supposed to be used for storage, but it's just big enough to fit a twin-size inflatable mattress, a chair, a small table, and not much else. The night of the full moon, Charlotte locks them in after dinner. Sam can hear her and Ray pushing the extra furniture they somehow accumulated in front of the door to block it.

“You shouldn't be in here, Sam,” Dean says, settling on the mattress that spans the entire length of the wall opposite the door, and unlacing his boots.

“Somebody has to give you the shots,” Sam tells him. “And I didn't want to leave you.”

Dean sighs and leans back against the wall, looking up at Sam. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, it's not like you'll be keeping me company or anything. I'll just be babysitting your drugged-up ass.” He offers Dean a weak smile and sets the bag he brought with him on the chair before collapsing on the other end of the mattress. The sedative vial, a tourniquet, and a syringe are packed away out of view, letting Sam pretend, for a few minutes at least, that the reason they're in here isn't as distressing as it really is.

“I don't want you taking any chances,” Dean says. “I give the slightest twitch, don't you hesitate.”

“I won't, Dean. It's gonna be okay.”

“I hope so.” He reaches for Sam's open bag and looks through its contents. There's an assortment of snacks and a couple bottles of water along with a few books, one of which has _Stephen King_ embossed down the spine. It's not Sam's usual fare, more Dean's speed – if Dean ever had time or the urge to read outside of the musty old texts required for researching whatever monster they were hunting, anyway. He settles back against the wall next to Sam. “When are we doing this, then?” He can feel the uncomfortable itch under his skin, instinctively knows it's going to be soon.

Sam shifts closer to his brother until their shoulders are pressed together. “We've got some time.”

Dean nods and takes a deep breath to calm himself, focusing on Sam's warmth beside him.

Half an hour later, Sam ties the tourniquet around Dean's bicep and waits for the vein in the bend of his elbow to darken and raise against his skin. “You're gonna wake up in the morning and this whole night will be nothing but one big blur.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, reclining back against the stack of pillows Sam brought down from their room. He feels the prick of the needle and flexes his forearm when Sam releases the tourniquet to let the sedative do its thing.

“Well,” Sam says, voice quiet, straining to put the syringe on table without moving away from Dean, “hopefully not _everything._ ” Sam stretches out along Dean's side and wraps an arm around his waist as he leans in, pressing his mouth to Dean's. The kiss is gentle, dry, and chaste until Sam tilts his head a little more to the right, slightly parted lips closing over the fullness of Dean's lower one.

Dean's felt the tension between them since Sam was bit, feels the spark every time they touch or even look at each other sometimes. He's tried to fight it but it's starting to feel inevitable. Like this... _thing_ that's happening to him right now. He slowly lets out his breath and lifts his hand to the side of Sam's neck, fingertips grazing through the fine hair at Sam's nape that's slightly sweat-damp and starting to curl.

Sam doesn't need more of an invitation than that, surges forward and presses Dean back into the pillows, kissing him the way he's been thinking about for months. His brother tastes faintly of barbeque and whiskey, tongue slick and warm against his own. “I'm gonna be right here when you wake up,” he promises, resting his forehead against Dean's. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Dean says, pushing Sam's hair out of his eyes. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“Don't know how much you're going to be thanking me when this stuff starts to kick in.”

“Pretty sure it's already starting to work,” Dean slurs sleepily.

“You're gonna be fine.”

“I know,” Dean breathes, closing his eyes as he feels the drug start to pull him under. “I got you lookin' out for me.”

“I'll always have your back,” Sam promises. He watches Dean's face go slack and feels his breaths slowly even out. He keeps his vigil all night, startling every time one of Dean's muscles twitches, making sure the next dose of sedative is within reach at all times.

The night passes without incident, but Sam ends up using nearly half of the vial before it's over. A little after eight the next morning, Charlotte and Ray move the furniture away from the door to let them out. Sam is so exhausted, he passes on Charlotte's offer to make make breakfast in favor of going right to bed.

Regardless of the fact that Dean spent the whole night sedated, he's just as tired. He blindly follows Sam up to the room they've been sharing for the past week and collapses onto the mattress beside him. They sleep half the day away curled around each other.

 

The phone in the kitchen rings a few days later while Dean's painting the living room, taking advantage of the empty house. It's Dr. Mitchell with the blood test results. Dean's not surprised when the man tells him that he isn't a carrier for the werewolf gene. But, he continues with barely contained excitement, while neither he nor his colleague can explain it, _Sam_ isn't a carrier, either. Something is different about Sam's blood. “There's something in his white blood cells that is neutralizing the virus and making it stable, effectively imitating the dormant gene's function,” Dr. Mitchell says with awe. “If we could further study-”

“No,” Dean interrupts. “You're not turning my brother into some kind of lab rat.”

“We just want to study his blood. There's a lot we could learn from it. It's unique; and if we could determine _why_ , we could save a lot of lives.”

At Sam's expense, Dean's sure. “No,” he repeats more firmly. “Thank you for all your help, Dr. Mitchell.” With that, Dean hangs up. He stands there for a long while, listening to the muted white noise of the radio playing on out in the living room, and tries to figure out what he's going to tell Sam. There's no way he can tell him everything because all Sam will hear is that there's a chance of a cure for Dean. He won't think of the consequences, won't think to protect himself from what Dr. Mitchell will likely assure him are his best intentions.

Dean drinks a beer and eats Sam's leftover tamales from last night's dinner, and settles on relaying only the basics of his conversation with the doctor.

When Sam and Ray get home from a full day of classes a little after five, Dean's not only finished painting the living room, but he also has a pot of chili simmering on the stove. While Ray's washing up in the bathroom, Sam slyly steals a kiss from Dean. “Looks like you had a busy day,” he observes.

“Yeah, I did,” Dean agrees, sliding a pan of cornbread batter into the oven. “Dr. Mitchell called with the test results.”

Sam looks at him with wide eye, expression hopeful. “And?”

“And nothing.” He shrugs and reaches for his third beer of the day. “I don't have the gene. Which we already knew.”

“But that doesn't make sense. We're full, biological brothers. Dr. Mitchell said-”

“He was wrong,” Dean interrupts before Sam can get himself too worked up. “We've got everything under control. The sedatives work. There's nothing to worry about.”

Sam wants to argue but Dean's got that look on his face like their dad used to get when it was time to pack up and get back on the road. It says Dean's word is final and unchangeable and there's nothing else to say. Sam nods. “Fine. But the sedatives are only meant to be a temporary solution.”

Shaking his head, Dean turns around to face his brother. He doesn't know why Sam insists on starting this conversation when they both know there's only one place for it to lead. “Yeah, Sam, I know. We _all_ know. There's _one_ permanent solution to this whole fucked up mess and if I recall correctly, _you_ said it wasn't an option.” He watches Sam pale and an apology is on the tip of his tongue. Instead of saying he's sorry, he starts for the back door, telling Sam to set a timer so the cornbread doesn't burn. The slamming of the screen door behind him isn't nearly as satisfying as he hoped it would be.

“Should've kept my mouth shut,” Sam says to himself, setting the timer on the microwave before dropping onto one of the chairs at the table. He slouches down in his seat until he can put his feet up on the chair across from him and shoves his hands through his hair.

“Trouble in paradise?” Ray snarks, finally wandering into the kitchen.

“Screw you,” Sam shoots back without heat.

Grabbing to cans of soda from the fridge, Ray takes the chair on Sam's left, knees bumping the underside of Sam's legs when he scoots forward. “Bad news from Dr. Mitchell, I take it?”

Sam opens the Coke Ray slides in front of him. “Pretty much.” He sighs heavily and closes his eyes. “This isn't fair.”

“It's not like it's the end of the world, though, right? I mean, yeah, it sucks that you can't cure Dean or that he can't be like us, but things are okay, aren't they?”

“For now, yeah. But what if he becomes resistant to the sedative? What if somebody in the pack decides he's a liability? What if something happens and nobody's here to sedate him and-” Sam's thought about all the different scenarios that could happen and none of them ever end well.

Judging by the look on Ray's face, it's obvious he's never played the 'what if' game. He stares at the can in his hands for a minute before changing the subject. “Have you started reading the chapters for Western Civ yet?”

 

Within a couple of weeks, they settle into a routine. During the day, Sam and Ray go to school, and Charlotte and Dean go to work. Everyone is usually home by six and they eat dinner together like a family. Sometimes they all pile into the living room to watch TV or a movie, but Sam and Ray have homework most nights so they always make sure to do something together on the weekends.

Everyone's busy and everything's good until the full moon comes around again to remind them that they're just playing at house.

They survive Halloween and Thanksgiving – Dean takes it upon himself to make sure the holiday is done right. Besides the turkey, he makes mashed potatoes and green bean casserole and biscuits and a pumpkin pie. It's so much more than the TV dinners or diner specials Sam's used to. Of course, the sense of normalcy the holiday made them feel is quickly stripped away with the approaching full moon the following week.

Dean's already settled on the air mattress in their makeshift panic room with the King novel he started reading months ago when Sam joins him with a stack of books and a thermos of coffee. He's been studying like mad for his upcoming finals and Dean can see that the kid's nearly burned out.

“Maybe Charlotte can take over for you tonight,” Dean suggests, sitting up to make room for Sam.

The closer they get, the more possessive Sam's inner 'wolf gets of Dean around the full moon. Right now, the thought of Charlotte locked up with Dean in this little room away from Sam has his heart pounding with fury. He doesn't know what he'd do if actually were to happen. “No,” he says, offering Dean a tight smile. “I'm good.”

“Well, you look like you need a ten-hour nap.”

Sam's smile eases at that and he leans over to kiss Dean. “You always say the sweetest things.”

Dean grins back and takes the book in Sam's hands from him, setting it aside on the floor. “You'll have time for that later,” he says, reclining back against the pillows and pulling Sam down with him.

Dean's right, Sam has all weekend to study. He helps Dean out of his shirt before pushing him flat against the mattress and curling his fingers underneath the elastic waistband of Dean's sweats.

“You're so easy to convince,” Dean laughs, lifting his hips to help Sam.

“You think I'm easy, period.” Sam tears his own shirt over his head and quickly shucks his jeans, leaving their clothes in a messy heap in the middle of the floor.

Nodding in distracted agreement, Dean slides his palms up Sam's long thighs to hold onto his hips and pull them flush together when Sam kneels between his spread legs.

Sam goes willingly, settling his weight on top of Dean, forearms braced on the cushion of pillows behind his brother's head. They haven't gone much further than this, grinding against each other to sweaty, sticky orgasm, but Sam's content with it for now. He doesn't have to worry about who's putting what where and can just rock into that perfect groove of Dean's hip and groin, focusing on the feel of Dean's hands on his skin and his soft, talented mouth.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean groans, spreading his knees wider for better leverage to thrust up against Sam, balance unsteady on the shifting air mattress. He can't get enough of Sam like this, shameless and eager, arching into Dean's hands when he trails them down Sam's back to grip the curve of his ass. It draws a moan out of Sam when he lets a finger delve between the taut muscles and graze his sensitive hole.

The slightest hint of pressure _there_ has Sam crying out, hips stuttering with his sudden release all over Dean's belly.

Dean takes it in stride, revels in how reactive Sam is, uses the slick of Sam's come and the weight of Sam's slack body to find his own completion.

After a moment, Sam shifts off of Dean's chest, resting his head on his brother's shoulder and staying close to his side as Dean cleans them up with his shirt. They trade lazy kisses as they bask in the afterglow, drawing out the minutes before they have to deal with the reason they're locked in this little room.

Dean watches Sam doze and keeps an eye on the time. They're on a pretty tight schedule but it's obvious Sam could use a little rest. When they can't wait any longer, he rolls his shoulder under Sam's heavy head. “Hey,” Dean says quietly. “Wake up.”

“I _am_ awake,” Sam grumbles, clinging tighter to Dean.

“C'mon, Sammy. You gotta get up.”

Sam exhales loudly through his nose and slowly sits up, glaring at Dean for ruining the moment. He doesn't bother to get completely redressed, just pulls on his underwear before retrieving his supplies.

They've got it down to an art and Dean's got a dose of sedative coursing through his veins in a matter of moments. He lifts his arm to make room for Sam against his side and holds his brother close as unconsciousness pulls him under.

 

Sam wakes with a start, feeling sluggish and groggy, forgetting for a moment where he is. His heart nearly stops when he realizes he fell asleep and that Dean's no longer out cold beside him, but twitching as though in the throes of a nightmare. Before Sam can reach the syringe, Dean has him pinned to the floor, sharp nails gouging into Sam's chest and baring even sharper teeth in a menacing snarl. He growls at Sam, a rumbling, inhuman sound that makes a shiver race down Sam's spine.

But it's not fear that Sam feels; it's his 'wolf's revulsion at the abomination attempting to assert dominance over him. It takes every ounce of strength Sam has to keep himself in check, to keep from shifting then and there to eliminate the threat. Sam's wolf side doesn't seem to sense that the half-breed looming over him is Dean. It's confusing and throws Sam even further off balance. When he lifts a gentle hand to Dean's arm in an attempt to calm him, Dean snaps at him, fear in his distant eyes.

In the next moment, Dean's off of him, clawing at the door like a wild animal until his fingers are bleeding as Sam watches in horror. Dean's single-minded focus on escape presents Sam with the only opportunity he has to stop his brother before he can further hurt himself. With Dean preoccupied, Sam grabs the syringe and stabs it into Dean's back, making him howl in shock and pain, administering the second dose of sedative Sam missed giving him.

Dean turns on him and manages to catch Sam across the cheek with his mangled claws before his knees buckle beneath his weight and he crashes to the floor.

After moving Dean back to the mattress, Sam gives him another half dose for good measure. In the moment of silence that follows, as Sam tries to catch his breath and slow his wildly beating heart, he hears Ray and Charlotte on the other side of the door, moving the heavy bookcases away. “It's okay!” he yells, knowing they can hear him. “We're okay!”

“What happened?” Charlotte calls back.

Sam hangs his head between his knees, unable to believe he was so stupid. He should've listened to Dean.

“Sam?”

“I fell asleep! Missed his second dose!”

“Is he okay?” Ray asks.

Sam looks at his brother's severely injured hands. “Yeah.” There's no way he can keep this from Dean even if he wanted to. He just has to hope Dean doesn't take this as badly as Sam's afraid he might.

The night passes slowly, Sam kept awake by the dregs of his coffee and his own self-loathing for letting this happen. Dean's still out when Charlotte and Ray open the door, and after staring at it for hours, the damage Dean did to the frame and the door itself doesn't look as bad as Sam knows it could've been. Charlotte and Ray don't ask any questions and leave Sam alone to clean and bandage Dean's hands before cleaning himself up.

He's sitting the in the chair next to the air mattress with a fresh cup of coffee when Dean finally starts to stir.

Dean's mouth is desert-dry and his head feels as though it's been stuffed with cotton like it always does when he comes to after a night spent sedated. What's unusual this morning, however, is the aching tightness in his fingers and the dull throb of pain in his muscles. He blinks up at the ceiling and catches sight of Sam out of the corner of his eye. He looks nervous. “Morning,” Dean rasps, turning his head in his brother's direction. With both eyes on Sam, he can see the scratches and bruising along Sam's cheek, the wounds on his chest. “What- what happened?”

Sam sets his coffee aside when Dean struggles to sit up, moving to kneel on the floor in front of him. “I'm sorry, you were right.”

“Sammy?” At first, Dean's confused, brain still foggy from the drugs, then he notices the bandages on his hands and knows exactly what Sam's apologizing for. “Jesus Christ,” Dean grits out, throwing his arms around Sam and pulling him to his chest. “You stupid idiot.”

“I know. I fell asleep. I'm sorry.” Sam buries his face in Dean's throat and holds onto his brother.

“What if-” Dean doesn't want to finish the thought, doesn't want to imagine what could've happened, how much worse it could've been. “We can't live like this anymore, Sam. We can't. It's too much to put on you.”

Sam shakes his head and tightens his grip around Dean's waist. “No. It's okay, we're okay. It won't happen again. _I promise,_ it won't happen again.”

Dean tries to pull away enough to look Sam in the eye, but his brother's having none of it, refuses to relinquish his hold. He knows what Sam is afraid of. “That's not what I'm saying, Sam.” He sighs. “Maybe it's time to find Dad.”

Sam tilts his head up to meet Dean's gaze. “What if he doesn't know anything? Being on the road with you like this is more dangerous than staying here.”

“We have to do something. I'm putting all of you at risk.”

Sam doesn't want to leave, but part of him understands that Dean's right. Their father is the only person who might know why Sam's different. He could know how to save Dean and not even _know_ that he holds the answer to their problem.

 

Dean works up the courage to call their father's cell after a couple of days, but the number is temporarily out of service. When he tries Elkins, the hunter doesn't try to mask his surprise at hearing from Dean. He's paranoid enough to be unwilling to give Dean any real information over the phone, but admits that he might have an idea where John Winchester might be.

Sam finishes out his first semester of college, tells his adviser that he has to take the spring term off for personal reasons.

Christmas is a somber affair, nobody's really in much of a celebrating mood with the Chevelle's trunk full of most of Sam and Dean's things, packed and ready to go in the driveway. They try, though, eat a ham dinner – courtesy of Dean, who's proven to be more adept in the kitchen than just opening a can of SpaghettiOs – and exchange presents under the tree.

The day after New Year's, Sam's putting the last of their things into the backseat while Dean's doing a last-minute oil check when Charlotte comes out of the house bundled in the crazy quilt Sam had given to her for Christmas. “I hope you weren't thinking of leaving without saying goodbye,” she says, reaching for Sam and pulling him into a hug.

“Of course not. We were just making sure everything was ready to go,” Sam tells her.

“Uh huh,” Charlotte mutters, letting him go before moving on to Dean, who grudgingly accepts her embrace. “And let Sam take care of you, okay? Don't be such a butthead all the time.”

Sam laughs, glancing up when Ray bursts through the front door.

The younger 'wolf bounds down the porch stairs with a plastic Tupperware container. “Cookies!” he announces, thrusting the container at Dean. “And pie. There's a little of everything in there. Except the chocolate because I didn't think that would travel very well.” He shrugs and stands beside Charlotte, looking uncertain of himself.

Dean sighs and reaches for the kid's hand, shaking it once before pulling him into a brief hug. “Behave,” he says. “And try to stay out of trouble.”

“I'll try,” Ray says with a smirk. Sam knows that look – he sees it on Dean's face all the time.

“Well...” Dean starts, passing the Tupperware container off to Sam. “I guess we better get going.”

“Remember what I said,” Charlotte reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean says with a dismissive wave and a grin as he climbs into the car, Sam following suit. “See you when we see you.”

They watch Charlotte and Ray wave goodbye as they drive away and Sam turns in his seat to look at Dean as house disappears in the distance behind them. “Think we'll ever go back?”

Dean nods slowly before looking over at his brother. “Of course, Sammy. It's the closest thing to a home we've got.”

 

****

EPILOGUE

When they get to Elkins' place almost three days later, the man proves to know even less than he led Dean to believe. The mess they had left behind has long since been cleaned up, but the hunter puts them to work chopping enough wood to last him the rest of winter before he tells Dean he hasn't seen John in almost a year. After they came back from their hunt and found the cabin in such a state, John had nearly cleaned out Elkins' supply of whiskey. When he sobered up enough to start theorizing, he gathered the things Sam and Dean left behind, muttering something about California before he left without so much as a thanks or an offer to repair the damage done to Elkins' cabin.

Once they have all the information – what little of it there is – that Daniel Elkins can give them, Dean starts heading to California. He stops at every town on the way that's big enough to have the local paper on microfilm at the public library and helps Sam look for any clue that might prove they're on the right trail in searching for their father. After the first five stops and no leads, it seems likely that he must have driven straight through.

Dean and Sam get their first solid lead when they finally make it to Palo Alto. The spring semester has just started and nobody looks at them twice when they make their way into the admissions office. The girl at the counter looks bored out of her mind until she lays eyes on Dean. Sam just barely manages to keep his possessiveness in check. Snarling at the pretty co-ed isn't going to go them any favors. He does put himself in front of Dean, though, forcing her attention away from his brother. “Hi,” he says, aiming a fake, bright smile at her. “I was wondering if you could help me out.”

The girl glances up at Dean through her eyelashes one last time and finally looks over at Sam. “I can try,” she offers, smile nearly as forced as Sam's.

“Could you tell me if anybody's called or stopped in looking for a Sam Winchester?”

Her expression goes a little pinched and she shakes her head. “How would I know that? We're the admissions office, not a hotel front desk.”

An older woman pouring a cup of coffee at the machine behind the desk glances over at Sam's question. “Excuse me,” she says, “but I did have a man call my office on a few occasions looking for a student by that name.”

Sam looks over his shoulder at Dean. “That's me,” he tells her. “I'd gotten accepted here and- Well, that's not really important-” At the woman's arched brow, he starts again. “I mean, yeah, it's important, but that's not why we're here. Obviously, I'm not a student here, but my dad – the man you talked to – doesn't know that. I ended up going on a roadtrip with my brother instead,” he lies.

The woman nods. “It's been a while since he last called.”

“Do you happen to remember if it was a local number that he called you from?”

The number she gives Sam leads them to a motel outside of San Jose. Parked in front of the room furthest from the motel office is the dust-covered Impala. The car doesn't look like it's been moved in weeks. Dean parks beside it and shares a look with Sam. “We're not gonna tell him about you. We're gonna tell him that I was the one that got bit.”

“Dean-” Sam starts to argue, but his brother holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“He doesn't need to know about the pack in Tennessee. We don't know what he'll do if we tell him everything. You know how Dad is: if it's not human, it needs to be killed. For now, until we find out if he can help us or not, he doesn't need to know anything else.”

“If we don't tell him about me, what's the point of coming here? Why would we have reason to ask if he knows anything about werewolves or the gene or if one of us just so happens to be adopted and he forgot to mention it? We reacted differently to the virus. He has to know that.”

Dean doesn't want to admit that Sam has a point. He can't protect Sam from their father if he knows – that was the whole point of running away to begin with. Sighing, Dean nods. “Fine.” He stares at the motel room door for another minute before climbing out of the car.

Sam follows Dean to the door, heart pounding in his chest in time with Dean's knocks. Waiting for an answer feels like eternity, but Sam can hear movement on the other side, slow shuffling that leads to the door. There's a moment of silence before it's suddenly flung open, the man standing there barely recognizable as John Winchester. His beard is a scraggly, unkempt mess, greasy hair hanging over blood-shot eyes. He reeks of alcohol and sweat and it looks like he's been wearing the same clothes for days.

“Dad?” Dean asks. Of all the ways he expected to see his father when he opened the door, this was not it.

John's gaze swings slowly from Sam to Dean when he speaks, then back. “You're alive,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Yeah, Dad, I am,” Sam nods.

“I thought- I thought he finally came back for you.” John's shadowed eyes widen slightly with fear.

Dean's confused, has no idea what their father's talking about. “Who, Dad? Who did you think came back for Sam?”

John's gaze strays only briefly to Dean before he replies, “The demon.”

“The demon that killed Mom?”

John nods, eyes trained on Sam. “He was in your nursery that night, Sam. Sammy...” His eyes go wet and he looks strangely close to tears. Dean's never seen him like this, ever. The whole moment is surreal, standing in the doorway of a motel room in California, hint of ocean on the cool breeze, his father on the verge of tears. “He did something to you. I'm not sure what,” he says with a shake of his head, “but I thought he came back to finish the job.”

Sam looks at Dean, heart somewhere in his stomach. He wonders...

Dean swallows hard and nods at Sam. They've got the answer they came here for and they didn't have to tell their dad a thing. They can take care of two birds with one stone. Dean fixes his gaze back on his father. “He didn't. But we're gonna stop the goddamn bastard before he can.”


End file.
